HE  WORKER 
AND  HIS  WGR 

STELLA     S.    CENTER 


THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 


!  !; 


FLOUR  MILLS,  MINNEAPOLIS.   BY  JOSEPH  PENNELL 


FLOUR  MILLS,  MINNEAPOLIS 

The  mills  of  Minneapolis  are  as  impressive  as  the  cathedrals  of  France.  There  are  places 
on  the  river  where  they  group  themselves  into  the  same  compositions,  with  the  bridges 
below  them,  that  I  found  years  ago  at  Abli — only  the  color  is  different;  the  rosy  red  of  the 
French  brick  is  changed  to  dull  concrete  gray.  The  tree  masses  below  are  the  same,  and 
the  old  stone  railroad  bridge  over  the  Mississippi  is  just  as  drawable  as  that  over  the  Tarn. 
The  beauty  of  the  flour  mills  is  the  beauty  of  use — they  carry  out  William  Morris's  theory 
that  "everything  useful  should  be  beautiful" — but  I  don't  know  what  he  would  have 
said  of  them.  There  are  other  subjects  which  recall  Tivoli,  where  the  streams  gush  out 
from  the  bluffs  or  tremble  and  rush  and  roar  from  dark  caverns  between  the  huge  modern 
masses  of  masonry  as  finely  as  they  do  in  far-away  Italy.  Those  were  the  shrines  of  the 
gods — these  are  the  temples  of  work,  the  temples  of  our  time. 


LIPPINCOTT'S    SCHOOL    TEXT    SERIES 

EDITED  BY    WILLIAM    F.    RUSSELL,    PH.  D. 

DEAN,  COLLEGE  OF  EDUCATION,  STATE  UNIVERSITY  OF  IOWA 

THE  WORKER  AND 
HIS  WORK 

READINGS  IN  PRESENT-DAY  LITERATURE  PRESENT- 
ING SOME  OF  THE  ACTIVITIES  BY  WHICH  MEN 
AND  WOMEN  THE  WORLD  OVER  MAKE  A  LIVING 

COMPILED  BY 

STELLA  STEWART  CENTER 

A.B.  GEORGE  PEABODY  COLLEGE;   A.M.  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY;  INSTRUCTOR  IN  ENGLISH, 

JULIA  RICHMAN  HIGH  SCHOOL,  NEW  YORK;   INSTRUCTOR  IN  SECRETARIAL 

CORRESPONDENCE,  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 

"In  the  handiwork  of  their  craft  is  their  prayer" 
ILLUSTRATED 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  LONDON 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


Cf- 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ20.  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,  U.  S.  A. 


FOREWORD 

To  my  colleagues  who  concern  themselves  with  the  significant 
work  of  helping  young  people  to  find  their  true  vocations: 

This  book  has  been  compiled  in  an  effort  to  meet  the  needs  of 
boys  and  girls  who  feel  the  urgent  necessity  of  selecting  the  right 
vocation.  Few  subjects  provoke  so  keen  an  interest  as  that  of  one's 
life  work.  "  The  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts."  But 
there  is  danger  in  early  selection  and  specialization  before  there  is 
perspective.  To  be  a  vocational  misfit  is  almost  as  tragic  as  to  have 
no  work  at  all. 

Two  dangers  have  confronted  the  world  of  education:  the  danger 
of  the  narrow  commercial  or  industrial  training  that  looks  for  quick 
returns  and  tends  to  convert  vocation  into  a  blind  alley  instead  of  an 
open  door;  and  the  danger  of  the  so-called  cultural,  academic  educa- 
tion that  leaves  vocation  to  accident  and  chance.  Any  system  of 
education  fails  that  does  not  include  the  philosophy,  the  perspective, 
the  vision  of  the  humanist,  and  at  the  same  time  the  technical  effi- 
ciency that  contends  successfully  with  immediate  facts,  details,  rou- 
tine. We  need  a  "  curriculum  of  Modernities  as  well  as  a  curriculum 
of  Humanities." 

Literature  is  most  valuable  in  giving  the  student  an  insight  into 
vocational  activities.  There  is  hardly  any  field  of  man's  work  but 
the  man  of  letters  has  made  it  his  own.  There  is  a  great  mass  of 
unimaginative,  expository  composition,  written  by  well-intentioned 
authors,  setting  forth  outlines  of  world  industries.  Such  material  is 
purposely  excluded  here,  even  from  the  bibliography,  for  such  reading 
has  its  place  only  after  the  interest  in  a  particular  vocation  has  been 
aroused,  and  that  interest  can  be  quickened  only  by  real  literature — 
literature  that  portrays  the  souls  of  occupations  as  well  as  of  the 
men  who  follow  them. 

The  selections  included  in  this  volume  do  not  aim  primarily  to 
convey  knowledge  of  facts  or  processes,  but  to  emphasize  the  human, 
social  aspect  of  work,  and  to  interpret  it  in  its  vital  relations.  They 
have  the  atmosphere  of  human  philosophy,  a  sense  of  warm  human 
relationships,  qualities  that  will  bring  about  a  good  understanding 

3 

4C8301 


4  FOREWORD 

between  the  theorist  cloistered  in  academic  seclusion  and  the  man 
who  to  his  "  hot  and  constant  task  is  heroically  true." 

In  the  next  place,  the  selections  are  taken  from  the  works  of 
present-day  writers.  Many  educators  agree  that  contemporary 
literature  is  not  sufficiently  represented  in  the  school  curriculum, 
and  that  students  select  their  reading  from  contemporary  writers 
without  guiding  criticism.  A  great  effort  is  being  made  to  have  the 
literature  of  the  class-room  a  faithful  transcript  of  the  complex  life 
on  the  other  side  of  the  school-room  walls.  In  other  words,  it  has 
been  strongly  felt  that  the  literature  curriculum  should  keep  pace 
with  social  evolution,  even  with  the  last  phase  of  that  evolution. 

Then,  too,  it  has  seemed  advisable  to  include  a  variety  of  literary 
types  and  composition,  such  as  thrilling  narrative,  graphic  descrip- 
tion, the  lyric  outburst,  the  bit  of  essay  as  alluring  as  the  winding 
road — all  necessary  to  portray  man  at  his  work. 

The  selections  exclude  for  the  most  part  those  activities  con- 
nected with  the  so-called  fine  arts  and  professional  life,  not  because 
they  are  not  a  part  of  the  world's  work,  but  because  justice  demands 
that  due  recognition  be  given  the  worker  who  labors  in  the  industrial, 
commercial,  and  occupational  activities  of  life,  with  his  hand  as  well 
as  with  his  head.  The  great  need  of  society  is  for  the  laborer  to 
appreciate  himself  and  to  be  appreciated  by  those  who  are  not  in  the 
popular  sense  toilers. 

The  reading  of  literature  about  work  should  lead  to  composition 
of  the  best  type — that  based  on  close  observation  of  the  kinds  of 
work  done  in  the  student's  environment.  Thus  a  style  that  is  direct 
and  concrete  will  be  developed,  suitable  for  the  average  practical 
demands  of  life.  The  selections  deal  with  various  sections  of  the 
United  States,  in  response  to  the  demand  that  students  should  have 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  local  activities  in  literary  perspective.  The 
occupations  and  industries  of  other  countries  are  also  represented, 
to  encourage  the  student  to  think  in  terms  of  the  world.  So  the  text 
has  a  wide  geographical  range,  in  an  effort  to  supplement  the  paro- 
chial and  sectional  point  of  view  with  the  national  and  international. 

That  literature,  particularly  novels,  which  has  acute  economic 
crises  for  a  background  has  been  relegated  to  the  bibliography.  Such 
reading  is  peculiarly  sombre  and  depressing;  and  the  ambitious 
student  will  select  judiciously  what  suits  his  needs.  The  text  on 
the  whole  is  meant  to  express  the  sane,  wholesome  content  that 


FOREWORD  5 

comes  only  when  one  performs  to  the  best  of  his  ability  some  piece 
of  the  necessary  work  of  the  world.  Work,  because  it  is  creative, 
is  inherently  cheerful,  and  young  people  will  miss  much  of  the  joy  of 
life  if  they  do  not  learn  to  work  cheerfully. 

A  text  on  the  subject  of  work  has  a  place  in  all  schools,  regard- 
less of  their  classifications,  whether  commercial,  or  academic,  or 
technical,  or  industrial,  for  the  basis  of  life  is  work,  and  the  language 
of  occupations  should  need  no  interpreter.  Such  literature  seems 
the  essential  core  of  the  English  curriculum,  to  which  must  be  added 
the  literature  of  aesthetic  delight.  _  . 


NEW  YORK,  November,  1919. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

FOR  the  use  of  copyrighted  material  the  author  extends  grateful 
acknowledgment  to  the  following  publishers  and  authors:  The 
Curtis  Publishing  Company  for  Shipping,  by  Archie  Austin  Coates; 
the  American  Magazine  for  The  Man  Within  Him,  by  Edna  Ferber; 
Angela  Morgan  for  Work:  a  Song  of  Triumph;  the  Book  Supply 
Company  for  selections  from  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth,  by 
Harold  Bell  Wright;  The  Touchstone  for  Nora,  by  Elizabeth  West 
Parker;  Doubleday  Page  and  Company  for  selections  from  The  Four 
Million,  by  William  Sidney  Porter,  The  Pit,  by  Frank  Norris, 
Blazed  Trail  Stories,  by  Stewart  Edward  White,  and  Cappy  Ricks, 
by  Peter  B.  Kyne;  the  Outlook  Company  for  Sap-Time,  by  Eliza- 
beth Woodbridge;  D.  Appleton  and  Company  for  selections  from 
The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot,  by  Frank  T.  Bullen,  and  Cape  Cod 
Ballads,  by  Joseph  C.  Lincoln;  Charles  Scribner's  Sons  for  The 
Open  Hearth,  by  Herschel  S.  Hall,  Work,  by  Henry  van  Dyke,  and 
the  selections  from  Kipps,  by  Herbert  George  Wells;  Frederick  A. 
Stokes  Company  for  selections  from  Fanny  Herself,  by  Edna  Ferber, 
and  Cotton  as  a  World  Power,  by  James  A.  B.  Scherer;  the  Saalfield 
Publishing  Company  for  the  selection  from  The  Delights  of  Delicate 
Eating,  by  Elizabeth  R.  Pennell;  Harper  and  Brothers  for  the  selec- 
tions from  Your  United  States,  by  Arnold  Bennett,  The  Silver  Horde, 
by  Rex  Beach,  The  Iron  Woman,  by  Margaret  Deland;  The  Woman 
and  Her  Bonds,  from  Wall  Street  Stories,  by  Edwin  Lefevre; 
Dodd,  Mead  and  Company  for  the  selection  from  The  Life  of  the  Bee, 
by  Maurice  Maeterlinck;  the  Independent  for  the  diagram  by  Henry 
J.  Fischer.  The  selections  from  Brunei's  Tower  and  Old  Delabole, 
by  Eden  Phillpotts,  from  A  Step-Daughter  of  the  Prairie,  by  Margaret 
Lynn,  from  The  Business  of  Being  a  Woman,  by  Ida  M.  Tarbell, 
and  from  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border,  by  Hamlin  Garland,  are  used 
by  permission  of,  and  special  arrangement  with,  the  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, Publishers.  The  selections  from  the  works  of  Henry  Sydnor 
Harrison  and  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  are  used  by  permission  of,  and 
special  arrangement  with,  Houghton,  Mifflin  Company,  the  author- 
ized publishers  of  their  works.  Acknowledgment  of  other  copy- 

7 


8  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

righted  material  is  made  in  connection  with  the  selections  in  the  man- 
ner prescribed  by  the  publishers.  Grateful  acknowledgment  is  also 
made  to  Mr.  Joseph  Pennell  for  the  privilege  of  reproducing  three 
of  his  drawings  with  the  accompanying  legends;  to  the  Metropolitan 
Museum  for  Rodin's  Thinker,  and  to  Avery  Library,  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, for  generous  permission  to  photograph  the  reproductions  of 
the  works  of  Constantin  Meunier  in  Etudes  sur  Quelques  Artistes 
Originaux — Constantin  Meunier,  by  Camille  Lemounier,  and  also 
Le  Marteleur  in  bronze. 

For  most  of  the  biographical  data  the  editor  is  indebted  to 
Who's  Who. 

In  addition,  the  editor  wishes  to  express  her  sincere  thanks  to  her 
colleagues  and  friends  whose  generous  assistance  and  advice  have 
made  the  assembling  of  this  book  a  pleasure. 

THE  EDITOR. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 17 

WORK HENRY  VAN  DYKE    36 

From  Poems 

WORK:  A  SONG  OF  TRIUMPH ANGELA  MORGAN    37 

From  The  Hour  Has  Struck 

KEEP  ON  WORKING RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON    39 

From  Little  Essays  in  Literature  and  Life 

THE  MAIL-ORDER  HOUSE ARNOLD  BENNETT    42 

From  Your  United  States 

THE  AMERICAN  TELEPHONE ARNOLD  BENNETT    46 

From  Your  United  States 

THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY BERTON  BRALEY    50 

From  Songs  of  A  Workaday  World 

SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS WALTER  SANDERS  HIATT    51 

From  Scribner's  Magazine,  April,  1914 

FANNY  HERSELF EDNA  FERBER    64 

From  Fanny  Herself 

THE  EMPORIUM HERBERT  GEORGE  WELLS    72 

From  Kipps 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  BUSY  BROKER O.  HENRY    77 

From  The  Four  Million 

THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS EDWIN  LEFEVRE    81 

From  Wall  Street  Stories 

THE  WHEAT  PIT FRANK  NORRIS    96 

From  The  Pit 

THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM EDNA  FERBER  108 

From  The  American  Magazine,  June,  1914 

A  POTTER'S  WHEEL EDEN  PHILLPOTTS  124 

From  Brunei's  Tower 

THE  RIVERMAN STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE  131 

From  Blazed  Trail  Stories 

THE  TOLL  OF  BIG  TIMBER BERTRAND  WILLIAM  SINCLAIR  141 

From  Big  Timber 

COTTON  AND  THE  OLD  SOUTH JAMES  A.  B.  SCHERER  147 

From  Cotton  a  World  Power 

THE  COTTON  PICKER CARL  HOLLIDAY  151 

From  The  Cotton  Picker  and  Other  Poems 

9 


10  CONTENTS 

AN  APIARY MAURICE  MAETERLINCK  152 

From  The  Life  of  the  Bee 

SAP  TIME ELISABETH  WOODBRIDGE  153 

From  The  Outlook,  January  31,  1914 

THE  RED  Cow  AND  HER  FRIENDS PETER  MCARTHUR  165 

I.  The  Gobler.      II.  His  Troubles.     III.  Human  Nature  in  Dumb 

Creatures.     IV.  Cow  Character.        V.  Calf  Exuberance. 
From  The  Red  Cow  and  Her  Friends 

THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE HAMLIN  GARLAND  170 

From  A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border 

THE  POWER  PLANT BERTON  BRALEY  176 

From  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World 

THE  OPEN  HEARTH HERSCHEL  S.  HALL  178 

From  Scribner's  Magazine,  April,  1919 

THE  IRON  WOMAN MARGARET  DELANO  192 

From  The  Iron  Woman 

CIGAR-MAKING HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON  199 

FROM  V.  V's  Eyes 

A  PRINTING-OFFICE ARNOLD  BENNETT  208 

From  The  Clayhanger 

IN  THE  QUARRIES EDEN  PHILLPOTTS  218 

From  Old  Delabole 

THE  INCOMPARABLE  ONION ELIZABETH  ROBINS  PENNELL  230 

From  The  Delights  of  Delicate  Eating 

SWEET  DAY  OF  REST ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL  237 

From  Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky 

IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES MARGARET  LYNN  247 

From  A  Step-daughter  of  the  Prairie 

HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRY  MAIDS  ON  BEACON  STREET  . .  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY  260 
From  Songs  for  a  Little  House 

ELLEN  HANGING  CLOTHES LIZETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE  261 

From  Contemporary  Verse  (Magazine) 

THE  NAVAJO  BLANKET CHARLES  FLETCHER  LUMMIS  262 

From  Some  Strange  Corners  of  Our  Country 

NORA ELIZABETH  WEST  PARKER  268 

From  The  Touchstone  (Magazine) 

THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  RAIMENT IDA  MINERVA  TARBELL  270 

From  The  Business  of  Being  a  Woman 

SHIPPING ARCHIE  AUSTIN  COATES  277 

From  The  Saturday  Evening  Post,  May  17,  1917 

UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS PETER  BERNARD  KYNE  278 

From  Cappy  Ricks 

THE  COD-FISHER JOSEPH  CROSBY  LINCOLN  292 

From  Cape  Cod  Ballads 


CONTENTS  11 

ABNER'S  WHALE FRANK  THOMAS  BULLEN  294 

From  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot 

THE  SALMON REX  BEACH  306 

From  The  Silver  Horde 

RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT  311 

From  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth 

THE  CHILD-MAN ARNOLD  BENNETT  322 

From  Clayhanger 

THE  "RED-INK  SQUAD" HARVEY  JERROLD  O'HiGGiNS  327 

From  The  Smoke-Eaters 

THE  THINKER '. BERTON  BRALEY  339 

From  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World 

BIBLIOGRAPHY 340 

WHO'S  WHO 345 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 
Flour  Mills,  Minneapolis  (Pennell) Frontispiece 

Carrier  (Meunier)  40 

Le  Marteleur  (Meunier) 70 

La  Moisson  (Meunier) 106 

L'Abreuvoir  (Meunier) 150 

Mineur  au  travail  (Meunier) 164 

Pittsburgh  (Pennell) 176 

Mineurs  Retour  du  Travail  (Meunier) 190 

Portefaix  (Meunier) 260 

Work  (Meunier) 276 

Approach  to  Duluth  (Pennell) 320 

The  Thinker  (Rodin) 338 


TO  THE  STUDENT 

DEAR  STUDENTS  OF  THIS  BOOK: 

The  purpose  of  The  Worker  and  His  Work  is  to  introduce  you  to 
the  varied  activities  by  which  men  and  women  the  world  over  make 
a  living.  Every  one  should  contribute  something  to  society,  for  which 
society  in  turn  pays  him  money.  It  may  be  services  which  he  renders 
or  some  commodity  he  sells.  But  whatever  he  has  "  for  sale  "  should 
be  worthy  of  him.  The  question,  then,  of  one's  vocation  is  basic, 
for  the  vocation  and  the  income  from  it  determine  one's  associates, 
one's  leisure,  recreation,  and  progress.  Some  vocations  are  "  blind 
alleys"  and  so  lead  nowhere;  others  offer  endless  opportunities  for 
increased  income,  promotion,  pleasure,  and  culture.  So,  the  matter 
of  one's  business  in  life  should  occupy  a  large  part  of  one's  thoughts. 

If  you  wish  to  get  the  greatest  profit  from  the  reading  of  this 
book,  begin  with  the  bibliography  and  get  the  "  lay  of  the  land,"  as 
all  travelers  try  to  do  first  in  an  unexplored  field.  The  easiest  way 
to  do  this  is  to  divide  your  class  into  groups  and  let  each  group  read 
a  certain  number  of  works  in  the  bibliography  and  classify  them  as 
to  form  and  content. 

The  following  suggestions  may  aid  you  in  making  the  classification: 

I.  Is  the  work  an  essay,  novel,  short  story,  letter,  or  poem? 
II.  What  vocation  is  portrayed  in  the  work? 

1.  Farm  work. 

2.  Household  work. 

3.  Mining. 

a.  Quarrying. 

4.  Business. 

1.  Department  store. 

2.  Mail-order  house. 

3.  Advertising. 

5.  Crafts. 

1.  Pottery. 

6.  Lumbering. 

a.  Forestry. 

15 


16  TO  THE  STUDENT 

7.  Fishing. 

8.  Printing. 

9.  Civil-engineering. 

10.  Seafaring  life. 

11.  Transportation  and  distribution. 

12.  Communication. 

13.  Founding. 

14.  Civil  service. 

Other  classifications  will  occur  to  you. 

As  your  fellow  students  make  reports  on  their  reading,  record 
the  classifications  in  your  note-book.  Then  you  are  ready  to  read 
the  selections.  When  you  find  a  selection  that  you  like,  read  the 
whole  work  from  which  it  is  taken,  if  it  is  a  selection,  and  read  all  the 
works  mentioned  in  the  bibliography  that  treat  of  similar  vocations. 
Perhaps  you  can  add  to  the  bibliography.  After  reading  those  works 
that  give  the  spirit  of  the  various  vocations,  read  works  on  the  sub- 
ject that  give  you  detailed  information.  Find  out  where  instruction 
in  a  given  subject  can  be  best  obtained.  Write  to  the  school  for  a 
catalogue.  Try  to  discover  who  are  the  leaders  in  the  vocation  of 
your  choice. 

Such  reference  works  as  Who's  Who  and  the  Reader's  Guide  to 
Periodical  Literature  will  be  invaluable  to  you,  for  they  give  the  most 
recent  information. 

Even  if  you  have  decided  on  a  vocation,  an  acquaintance  with 
other  workers  will  make  you  intelligent  about  the  activities  that 
carry  on  the  world's  work. 

With  the  hope  that  the  reading  of  this  book  may  help  you  in  de- 
termining your  own  vocation,  I  am 

Yours  sincerely, 


THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

INTRODUCTION 

Art  and  Work. — The  work  of  the  world  is  one  of  its  greatest 
facts,  and  "  work  done  squarely,  with  unwasted  days  "  challenges 
universal  admiration.  The  creative  quality  inherent  in  work  has 
inspired  artists  with  some  of  their  finest  creations.  All  have  paid 
their  tribute  to  the  man  who  "  to  his  hot  and  constant  task  is  hero- 
ically true  " ;  art  delights  to  honor  the  worker,  whatever  the  scene 
of  his  activity  may  be — whether 

Forge  or  farm  or  mine  or  bench, 

Deck,  altar,  outpost  lone; 
Mill,  school,  battalion,  counter,  trench, 

Rail,    senate,   sheepfold,    throne. 

It  is  no  curse  to  earn  bread  by  the  sweat  of  one's  brow.  The 
artist  can  find  no  better  theme  on  which  to  spend  himself  than  that 
of  man's  quest  of  a  livelihood,  whether  he  be  a  Meunier,  singing  with 
lyric  fervor  in  bronze;  or  a  Thomas  Hood  wailing  The  Song  of  the 
Shirt;  or  a  Joseph  Pennell,  to  whom  a  towering  factory  chimney  is  a 
twentieth  century  campanile,  and  a  power-house  as  worthy  of  art 
as  the  Holy  Grail.  We  fall  easily  under  the  spell  of  work.  The 
"  romance  of  labor,"  the  "  wonder  of  work  "  are  current  but  not 
empty  phrases.  We  see  both  romance  and  wonder,  when  the  young 
engineer  builds  a  bridge  over  the  roaring  Ganges;  when  the  Cape 
Cod  fisher  "  in  his  battered  schooner  leaps  the  long  Atlantic  swells  "; 
when,  the  Kentucky  farmer  upturns  the  soil  for  his  hemp;  when  the 
adventurous  lumberman  makes  inroads  into  the  primeval  forest; 
when  the  Wyoming  shepherd  tends  his  sheep  in  rural  solitude;  when 
the  quarryman  bores  into  caverns  of  slate;  when  the  telephone 
operator  annihilates  distance  with  a  system  of  plugs  and  currents. 
All  these  activities  constitute  the  world's  work,  and  all  are  of  absorb- 
ing interest  to  every  one.  They  are  man's  efforts  to  exist,  and 
exist  worthily. 

Literature  and  Work. — Great  writers  of  all  ages  have  cele- 
brated the  world's  work  and  glorified  the  sincere  worker.  They  have 
2  17 


18  THE  WORKER  -AND  HIS  WORK 

felt  the  soul  of  industries  and  occupations,  and  have  made  their 
readers  feel  it.  Homer  lingers  lovingly  over  the  careful  workman- 
ship of  the  shield  of  Achilles;  to  Kipling,  the  locomotive  .007  is  a 
creature  alive  and  pulsing;  Longfellow,  Phillpotts,  Matthew  Arnold, 
Browning,  follow  the  transformation  of  a  lump  of  clay  on  the  potter's 
wheel  until  it  is  a  graceful,  up-springing  vase,  instinct  with  life;  George 
Eliot  puts  into  the  mouth  of  Antonio  Stradivarius  the  true  philosophy 
of  work: 

But  God  be  praised, 

Antonio  Stradivari  has  an  eye 

That  winces   at   false  work  and  loves  the  true; 

With  hand  and  arm  that  play  upon  the  tool 

As  willingly  as  any  singing  bird 

Sets  him  to  sing  his  morning  roundelay 

Because  he  likes  to  sing  and  likes  the  song. 

Arnold  Bennett  stands  rapt  in  the  cathedral  gloom  of  a  telephone 
exchange,  "  with  its  murmuring  sound  as  of  an  infinity  of  scholars 
in  a  prim  school  ever  conning  their  lessons  ";  Marion  Crawford 
presents  the  work  of  a  Venetian  glass-blower,  whose  glass  looked 
like  the  juice  of  the  pomegranate.  The  spectacle  of  a  man  doing 
work  that  is  proper  to  him  and  who  is  thus  "  at  home  with  his  own 
heart "  arouses  the  man  of  letters  to  his  happiest  efforts. 

Dreams  and  Work. — This  literary  treatment  of  work  and  the 
worker  "  vivifies  the  common  round,"  so  that  work  is  not  a  lifeless, 
mechanical  routine.  It  encourages  one  to  dream  a  little,  to  phil- 
osophize about  one's  work,  and  so  lift  it  to  a  plane  of  dignity  where 
the  worker  is  self-respecting.  How  charming  a  picture  Elizabeth 
Browning  presents  in  one  of  her  sonnets! 

The  woman  singeth  at  her  spinning  wheel 
A  pleasant  chant,   ballad,   or   barcarolle ; 
She  thinketh  of  her  song,  upon  the  whole, 
Far  more  than  of  her  flax ;  and  yet  the  reel 
Is  full,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel 
With  quick  adjustment,  provident  control, 
The  lines,  too  subtly  twisted  to  unroll, 
Out  to  a  perfect  thread. 

And  so 

Work  may  prove 

The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  the  song. 


INTRODUCTION  19 

In  referring  to  his  Songs  of  Labor,  Whittier  expresses  the  wish  that 
Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 

And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent, 
Where  the  strong  working  hand 

Makes  strong  the  working  brain. 

Work  is  the  incidental,  accidental  thing  that  one  may  do — this 
to-day  and  that  next  year.  The  continuous  thing  is  one's  attitude, 
one's  philosophy.  At  one  extreme  is  the  man  who  is  doing  the  thing 
for  which  he  is  fitted  by  training  and  temperament  and  is  thus  find- 
ing his  work  an  opportunity  for  self-expression.  At  the  other  extreme 
is  the  man  who  grinds  out  so  much  service  in  return  for  so  much  pay, 
with  the  minimum  of  thought  about  the  work.  The  first  gives  his 
whole  thought  to  the  work,  during  working  hours,  and  before  and 
after;  he  is  creating  and  inventing  and  growing  constantly.  His 
work  is  a  pleasure  and  he  understands  the  phrase,  "  the  joy  of  work." 
On  the  other  hand,  a  man  may  have  the  dull  look  of  one  who  labors 
without  interest  or  pleasure  in  the  work.  The  two  workers  may  do 
the  same  thing,  and  yet  one  sees  only  the  fraction  that  he  is  making, 
while  the  other  sees  the  total  of  which  he  is  contributing  a  part. 
The  latter  may  paste  labels  on  a  can,  or  round  the  head  of  a  pin, 
or  punch  holes  in  a  metal  disc;  yet  to  the  mechanical  process  is 
added  the  thought  of  the  social  value  of  the  whole  product.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  very  hard  disagreeable  labor  to  be  performed. 
One  thing  that  can  help  relieve  the  dreariness  and  make  the  worker's 
life  tolerable  is  the  consciousness  that  the  thing  he  is  doing  is  needed 
and  is  essential  to  the  welfare  of  society. 

Effect  of  the  Literature  of  Work. — It  is  a  rare  pleasure  to  hap- 
pen upon  a  story,  or  a  poem,  or  a  sketch,  in  which  the  author  has  set 
forth  some  phase  of  industrial  activity  or  occupation  with  a  detailed 
affection  that  breeds  a  like  affection  in  the  reader.  One's  personality 
becomes  many-sided,  as  he  views  the  world  through  the  eyes  of  a 
potter,  a  weaver,  a  glass-blower,  a  lumberman,  a  fisherman,  a  sales- 
woman, a  farmer,  a  shepherd,  a  bridge-builder,  a  telephone  operator,  a 
sailor.  In  such  reading,  one  is  constantly  measuring  life  in  new  terms, 
making  new  estimates,  and  expanding  new  sympathies.  So  the  man 
of  letters  gives  the  reader  vicarious  experiences,  and  helps  him  to 
find  his  own  field  of  activity  in  the  working  scheme  of  the  world. 


20  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

This  wide  experience  by  proxy  helps  to  create  a  better  under- 
standing among  those  three  classes  of  people  into  which  the  political 
economist  has  divided  humanity:  the  producer,  the  consumer,  and 
the  distributor.  Without  such  an  understanding,  there  can  be  no 
true  democracy:  the  interests  of  the  three  classes  are  identical. 

A  wide  reading  among  the  writers  who  have  described  the 
world  at  work  gives  one  a  true  appreciation  of  fine  workmanship, 
without  which  there  can  be  no  true  culture,  and  without  which  one 
buys  indiscriminately.  America  will  always  be  a  market  for  mis- 
cellaneous, inartistic  wares  until  her  people  become  interested  in 
the  processes  of  workmanship,  and  value  it  rightly.  If  one  has  ever 
followed  actually  or  imaginatively  the  processes  by  which  a  piece 
of  Venetian  Rose  Point  is  evolved,  never  again  will  all  lace  look  alike 
or  will  one  quarrel  with  the  price  the  lacemaker  asks.  If  one  has 
observed  the  rapt  absorption  of  a  potter  manipulating  a  piece  of 
clay,  and  realized  how  much  of  himself  the  potter  puts  into  each 
product  of  his  skill,  he  will  wish  that  the  monstrosities  masquerading 
as  artistic  pottery  might  revert  to  the  primeval  dust.  It  is  the 
knowledge  of  processes  that  makes  one  sensitive  to  the  quality  of  the 
finished  product  and  considerate  of  the  conditions  under  which  the 
worker  lives  and  works. 

The  Worker  and  His  Work. — One's  vocation,  after  one's 
religion,  is  the  most  important  fact  in  life,  for  it  determines  the 
amount  of  one's  leisure,  the  manner  of  spending  that  leisure,  and 
also  one's  associations.  It  is  the  chief  means  of  self-expression.  Car- 
lyle  says  that  a  man  can  "  attain  true  happiness  only  in  clear  decided 
activity  in  that  sphere  for  which  by  nature  and  circumstances  he  has 
been  fitted  and  appointed."  It  must  provoke  one's  enthusiasms,  as 
well  as  one's  abilities,  as  a  modern  critic  happily  phrased  it.  Unless 
the  vocational  activity  stirs  the  creative  imagination,  it  is  inappro- 
priate and  unfit,  and  the  individual  will  miss  the  satisfaction  that 
springs  from  doing  one's  own  peculiar  work.  For  him  "  the  world  is 
truly  out  of  joint."  Longfellow  voices  this  idea  admirably  in  his 
Michael  Angela: 

In  happy  hours,  when  the  imagination 
Wakes  like  a  wind  at  midnight,  and  the  soul 
Trembles  in  all  its  leaves,  it  is  a  joy 
To  be  uplifted  upon  its  wings,  and  listen 
To  the  prophetic  voices  in  the  air 


INTRODUCTION  21 

That  call  us  onward.   Then  the  work  we  do 
Is  a  delight,  and  the  obedient  hand 
Never  grows  weary    .    .    . 

Sidney  Lanier's  conception  of  the  true  poet  may  well  be  taken  as 
the  ideal  of  the  worker: 

His  song  was  only  living  aloud, 
His  work  a  singing  with  his  hand. 

He  who  labors  prays,  provided  he  does  not  approach  his  work 
as  a  bungler,  an  amateur,  a  dilettante,  or  a  drudge,  but  aware  of 
the  process,  the  perspective,  and  the  philosophy  of  his  work.  Over- 
tones, as  well  as  tones,  are  necessary  to  complete  harmony.  So,  if 
the  worker  sees  the  work  in  its  emotional,  and  imaginative  setting, 
he  can  attain  true  culture  whether  the  scene  of  his  work  be  the  fac- 
tory, the  shop,  the  bank,  or  the  dock.  The  practical  affairs  of  life 
are  not  common  or  vulgar,  unless  one  be  short-sighted.  The  short- 
sighted see  only  baldness,  bleakness,  and  sordidness. 

What  is  a  vocation?  It  is  something  more  than  merely  making 
a  living.  It  is  man's  means  of  securing  abundant  life.  It  is  tragic 
to  do  the  work  and  miss  the  life.  Hence  one  who  works  only  for  pay, 
or  any  immediate  or  expedient  thing,  fails  blindly.  He  uses  the 
material  resources  of  the  world  for  base  ends.  People  who  work  are 
human  because  their  lives  are  based  broad  and  deep  in  the  funda- 
mentals of  life,  and  not  in  its  trivialities  or  non-essentials.  Dignity 
and  independence  characterize  those  who  labor. 

Greetings  and  Work. — Henry  Van  Dyke  says  that  even  the 
speech  of  those  who  work  has  a  peculiar  flavor.  In  Fisherman's  Luck, 
he  asks: 

"  Has  it  ever  fallen  in  your  way  to  notice  the  quality  of  the 
greetings  that  belong  to  certain  occupations? 

"  There  is  something  about  these  salutations  in  kind  which  is  sin- 
gularly taking  and  grateful  to  the  ear.  They  are  as  much  better 
than  an  ordinary  '  good-day '  or  flat  l  how  are  you?  '  as  a  folk- 
song of  Scotland  or  the  Tyrol  is  better  than  the  futile  love-ditty  of 
the  drawing-room.  They  have  a  spicy  and  rememberable  flavor. 
They  speak  to  the  imagination  and  point  the  way  to  treasure-trove. 

"  There  is  a  touch  of  dignity  in  them,  too,  for  all  they  are  so  free 
and  easy,  the  dignity  of  independence,  the  native  spirit  of  one  who 
takes  for  granted  that  his  mode  of  living  has  a  right  to  make  his 


22  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

own  forms  of  speech.     I  admire  a  man  who  does  not  hesitate  to 
salute  the  world  in  the  dialect  of  his  calling. 

"  How  salty  and  stimulating,  for  example,  is  the  sailorman's  hail 
of  l  Ship  ahoy!  '  It  is  like  a  breeze  laden  with  briny  odors  and  a 
pleasant  dash  of  spray.  The  miners  in  some  parts  of  Germany  have 
a  good  greeting  for  their  dusky  trade.  They  cry  to  one  who  is  going 
down  the  shaft,  '  Gliick  auf !  '  All  the  perils  of  an  underground 
adventure  and  all  the  joys  of  seeing  the  sun  again  are  compressed 
into  a  word.  Even  the  trivial  salutation  which  the  telephone  has 
lately  created  and  claimed  for  its  peculiar  use — '  Hello,  hello!  '- 
seems  to  me  to  have  a  kind  of  fitness  and  fascination.  It  is  like  a 
thoroughbred  bulldog,  ugly  enough  to  be  attractive.  There  is  a 
lively,  concentrated,  electric  air  about  it.  It  makes  courtesy  wait  upon 
dispatch,  and  reminds  us  that  we  live  in  an  age  when  it  is  neces- 
sary to  be  wide  awake. 

"  I  have  often  wished  that  every  human  employment  might 
evolve  its  own  appropriate  greeting.  Some  of  them  would  be  queer, 
no  doubt;  but  at  least  they  would  be  an  improvement  on  the  weari- 
some iteration  of  '  Good-evening '  and  (  Good-morning/  and  the 
monotonous  inquiry,  '  How  do  you  do?  ' — a  question  so  meaningless 
that  it  seldom  tarries  for  an  answer.  Under  the  new  and  more 
natural  system  of  etiquette,  when  you  passed  the  time  of  day  with 
a  man  you  would  know  his  business,  and  the  salutations  of  the 
market-place  would  be  full  of  interest." 

Unfair  Conditions  of  Work. — The  distress  arising  from  acute 
economic  crises  has  engaged  the  attention  of  many  a  poet  and  novel- 
ist. At  no  time  is  human  nature  so  shorn  of  its  artificialities  as 
when  men  are  thwarted  in  their  efforts  to  gain  a  livelihood,  and 
demand  instantly  that  they  shall  receive  an  adequate  medium  of 
exchange  for  their  labor.  At  various  periods  of  history,  when  num- 
bers of  hand-workers  have  been  supplanted  by  one  operator  with  a 
machine,  the  material  progress  has  left  a  train  of  woe  and  privation. 
Particularly  have  poets  voiced  the  dumb  woe  of  those  who  work  and 
struggle  vainly  to  eke  out  an  existence.  The  Song  of  the  Shirt  rings 
true  to  conditions  of  to-day.  The  vials  of  poetic  wrath  have  been 
poured  out  rightly  upon  those  who  exploit  the  labor  of  men  and 
women  and  little  children.  O.  Henry  thinks  that  the  man  who  pays 
salesgirls  five  dollars  a  week  deserves  a  more  thorough-going  punish- 
ment in  the  future  than  the  man  who  sets  fire  to  an  orphan  asylum. 


INTRODUCTION  23 

Elizabeth  Browning's  Cry  of  the  Children  smites  our  ears  to-day 
with  an  accusing  ring,  if  we  listen.  North  and  South,  children  are 
daily  entering  the  inward  closing  door  of  the  factory. 

Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers! 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 

They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their  mothers, 

And  that  can  not  stop  their  tears. 

The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows; 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest ; 

The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows ; 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward  the  west : 

But  the  young,  young  children,  O,  my  brothers ! 

They  are  weeping  bitterly. 

They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 

In  the  country  of  the  free. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run; 

They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 

They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its  wisdom ; 

They  sink  in  man's  despair  without  its  calm ; 

Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Christdom; 

Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the  palm : 

Are  worn  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  can  not  reap ; 

Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly — 

Let  them  weep !    Let  them  weep ! 

Attitude  of  the  Age  Toward  Work. — The  attitude  of  the  age 
toward  labor  is  characteristic;  it  is  one  that  is  conscious  of  the 
grandeur,  the  dignity,  and  the  power  inherent  in  work.  There  is  no 
vain  regretting  of  the  past,  that  loudly  deplores  the  antagonism  be- 
tween modern  commercial  life  and  art.  Joseph  Pennell  sees  in  the 
electric  lights  of  New  York  a  "  pattern  of  stars,  undreamed  of  by 
Hiroshigi."  Brooklyn  Bridge,  leaping  forward  span  on  span  across 
the  sky,  great  towers  thrust  skywards  to  the  clouds,  the  commercial 
harbor,  the  necessary  light-house,  the  throbbing  power-house,  the 
rolling-mill  in  full  blast,  and  likewise  the  worker  himself — all  have 
artistic  possibilities  to  the  artist  who  is  pulsing  with  the  electric 
currents  of  the  twentieth  century.  More  than  most  poets  has  Kip- 


24  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ling  appreciated  the  workingman  fairly,  neither  under-estimating 
him  nor  over-estimating  him.  It  is  not  necessary  to  invest  labor 
with  a  halo.  In  The  Wage  Slaves,  Kipling  has  paid  the  workingman 
a  tribute  that  must  be  very  acceptable  to  the  man  who  "  dowers  each 
mortgaged  hour  alike  with  clean  courage." 

Machinery  and  Work. — With  that  same  attitude  toward  labor, 
goes  the  modern  conception  of  machinery.  Only  most  recently 
has  the  machine  been  regarded  with  anything  but  tolerance:  it  was 
a  useful  thing,  but  hardly  a  thing  for  which  we  could  ever  have  a 
warm,  personal  regard.  Now,  the  modern  thinker  is  evangelically 
preaching:  the  man  must  dominate  the  machine:  do  work  with  a 
machine  in  a  craftsmanlike  manner:  it  is  the  machine  that  frees 
you  and  gives  you  the  leisure  and  opportunity  for  the  larger  and 
ever  larger  life.  Few  critics  of  modern  life  have  so  well  expressed 
the  relation  of  man  to  the  machine  as  has  Gerald  Stanley  Lee  in 
The  Voice  of  the  Machines  and  Crowds.  He  insists  that  we  may 
watch  machines  work,  that  we  may  control  machines,  but  that  it  is 
not  necessary  to  surrender  our  minds  to  a  machine.  Shall  we  be 
tools,  or  independent,  self-directing  individuals  using  a  tool?  If  the 
worker's  mind  can  be  fixed  on  complete  thoughts,  or  wholes,  not  on 
fragments;  if  he  can  be  sensible  of  the  poetry  of  the  process  of  the 
work;  if  he  refuses  to  be  separated  from  the  finished  product,  then 
his  actual  work  may  be  rounding  the  head  of  a  pin,  or  piercing  the 
eye  of  a  needle,  or  pasting  a  label  on  a  can,  but  he  is  not  a  machine; 
he  is  a  free  and  independent  worker  doing  his  share  of  the  necessary 
work  of  the  world.  The  finished  product  is  his  child.  One  may  not  go 
so  far  as  to  see  with  Kipling's  M 'Andrew  "  predestination  in  the  stride 
of  yon  connectin'-rod,"  but  most  of  us  can  sympathize  with  the 
dour  Scot's  engineer  in  his  sentiment  about  steam  and  romance. 

That  minds  me  of  our  Viscount  loon,  Sir  Kinneth's  kin — the  chap 
Wi'  Russia  leather  tennis-shoon  an'  spar-decked  yachtin'-cap. 
I  showed  him  round  last  week,  o'er  all — an'  at  the  last  says  he, 
"Mister  M'Andrew,  don't  you  think  steam  spoils  romance  at  sea?" 
Damned  ijjit!    I'd  been  doon  that  morn  to  see  what  ailed  the  throws, 
Manholin',  on  my  back — the  cranks  three  inches  off  my  nose. 
Romance !    Those  first-class  passengers — they  like  it  very  well, 
Printed  an'  bound  in  little  books ;  but  why  don't  poets  tell  ? 
I'm  sick  of  all  their  quirks  an'  turns,  the  loves  an'  doves  they  dream — 
Lord,  send  a  man  like  Robbie  Burns  to  sing  the  Song  o'  Steam ! 


INTRODUCTION  25 

To  match  wi'   Scotia's  noblest  speech  yon  orchestra   sublime — 

Whaurto — uplifted  like  the  just — the  tail-rods  mark  the  time. 

The  cranks  throws  give  the  double  bass,  the  feed-pump  sobs  an'  heaves; 

An'  now  the  main  eccentrics  start  their  quarrel  on  the  sheaves : 

Her  time,  her  own  appointed  time,  the  rocking  link-head  bides, 

Till — hear  that  note? — the  rod's   return  whings  glirrwnerin'  through  the 

guides. 

They're  all  awa !    True  beat,  full  power,  the  clangin*  chorus  goes 
Clear  to  the  tunnel  where  they  sit,  my  purrin'  dynamos. 
Oh  for  a  man  to  weld  it  then,  in  one  trip-hammer  strain, 
Till  even  first-class  passengers  could  tell  the  meanin'  plain! 
But  no  one  cares  except  mysel'  that  serve  an'  understand 
My  seven  thousand  horsepower  there.    Eh,  Lord !    They're  grand — they're 

grand.* 

Steam  is  the  very  breath  of  the  twentieth  century.  Years  ago, 
Walt  Whitman  asked,  "  Is  it  not  possible  in  this  age  of  machine  and 
factory  production  to  teach  the  average  man  the  glory  of  his  walk 
and  trade?  "  The  answer  is  a  ringing  "  aye." 

'Stratification  of  Work. — Any  system  of  training  that  tends  to 
fix:  the  worker  in  a  groove,  or,  to  change  the  figure,  that  brings  about 
a  sharply  defined  stratification  of  work,  is  as  undemocratic  and  as 
dangerous  to  the  principles  underlying  our  government  as  is  the 
caste  system  of  East  India,  for  industrial  and  occupational  strati- 
fication tends  to  social  stratification,  a  condition  peculiarly  objection- 
able to  the  western  mind.  A  man  may  do  one  thing  day  after  day, 
but  he  should  be  flexible,  physically  and  mentally,  capable  of  making 
quick  adjustments,  and  alert  to  all  that  life  holds  of  interest  and 
wonder.  It  is  the  special  duty  of  all  young  people  to  see  to  it  that 
their  life  work  does  not  prove  a  "  blind  alley."  One  of  the  leading 
educational  thinkers  of  to-day  says:  "  It  is  not  his  work  in  itself 
that  is  so  destructive!  to  the  spiritual  life  of  the  industrial  worker. 
It  is  rather  that  he  has  so  little  else  in  his  life."  Browning  expresses 
the  same  thought  in  his  Shop: 

Because  a  man  has  shop  to  mind 
In  time  and  place,  since  flesh  must  live, 
Needs  spirit  lack  all  life  behind, 
All  stray  thoughts,  fancies  fugitive, 
All  loves  except  what  trade  can  give? 

*  M' Andrew's  Hymn  by  Rudyard  Kipling. 


26  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

I  want  to  know  a  butcher  paints, 
A  baker  rhymes  for  his  pursuit, 
Candlestick-maker  much  acquaints 
His  soul  with  song,  or,  haply  mute, 
Blows  out  his  brains  upon  the  flute ! 

But — shop  each  day  and  all  day  long ! 
Friend,  your  good  angel  slept,  your  star 
Suffered  eclipse,  fate  did  you  wrong ! 
From  where  these  sorts  of  treasures  are, 
There  should  our  heart  be — Christ,  how  far! 

Culture  and  Work. — Just  so  far  as  industrial  life  can  base  itself 
in  those  qualities  that  make  us  all  kindred,  and  are  therefore  uni- 
versal, so  far  is  industrial  life  a  cultural  life,  and  industrial  education 
affords  as  liberal  a  culture  as  does  the  humanistic  curriculum.  This 
view  is  rapidly  becoming  the  creed  of  the  educational  world.  The 
welfare  of  democracy  depends  upon  having  the  largest  possible 
factor  common  to  liberal  and  industrial  education.  Cultural  occu- 
pation! An  apparent  paradox!  But  what  a  comment  on  society 
that  it  should  be  startled  by  such  a  combination  of  words!  How 
poor  is  that  individual  who  has  not  the  means  of  securing  life,  and 
even  more  abundant  life! 

The  world's  no  blot  nor  blank, 

But  means  intensely,  and  means  good, 

to  the  man  or  woman  who  has  found  his  work  and  is  doing  it. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 

To  THE  TEACHER 

I.  The  editor  suggests  that  the  study  of  the  bibliography  come 
first.  The  student  should  put  a  classified  list  of  the  refer- 
ences in  the  bibliography  in  his  note-book  and  add  to  it  both 
books  and  magazine  articles. 

II.  The  student  should  be  encouraged  to  read  the  entire  text  from 
which  a  selection  is  made.  This  reading  can  serve  as  material 
for  oral  and  written  book  reports.  . 

III.  If  any  of  the  occupations  and  industries  are  represented  in  the 

student's  community,  he  should  be  urged  to  investigate  the 
one  in  which  he  is  most  interested,  make  a  report  to  his 
class,  and  embody  the  results  of  his  investigations  in  themes. 

IV.  The  student  should  make  a  study  of  catalogues,  with  a  view  to 

finding  out  the  best  schools  where  training  in  a  given  field 
can  be  obtained. 

V.  Interviews  with  men  and  women  who  have  succeeded  in  a  given 
field  are  stimulating  to  the  student.  As  soon  as  possible, 
the  student  should  become  familiar  with  the  use  of  the 
Reader's  Guide  to  Periodical  Literature.  In  many  cases,  his 
best  sources  of  information  are  recent  magazines.  The  abil- 
ity to  use  a  library  intelligently  is  one  of  the  first  accomplish- 
ments of  the  successful  student. 

VI.  In  addition  to  writing  themes,  and  writing  business  letters  for 
catalogues,  the  text  can  serve  the  student's  composition  needs 
further  by  suggesting  fruitful  subjects  for  debate;  for  ex- 
ample, questions  of  taste  in  advertising,  business  ethics,  or 
the  advantage  of  college  training  in  certain  vocations. 
VII.  The  following  questions  and  topics  illustrate  the  kind  of 
assignment  that  may  be  given  the  student: 

A.  "  Every  occupation  has  its  heroes,  its  discoveries,  and 
its  romances,  some  of  which  are  as  fascinating  as 
military  history." 

27 


28  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Verify  this  statement  with  reference  to  one  of 
the  following  masters  of  achievement: 

1.  Elias  Howe. 

2.  Cyrus  Hall  McCormick. 

3.  Wilbur  Wright. 

4.  Glenn  Curtiss. 

5.  Elbert  Henry  Gary. 

6.  Philip  Danforth  Armour. 

7.  Henry  Clay  Frick. 

8.  George  Westinghouse. 

9.  Edward  Henry  Harriman. 

10.  James  Jerome  Hill. 

11.  Montgomery  Ward. 

12.  Andrew  Carnegie. 

13.  John  Merven  Carrere. 

14.  George  Washington  Goethals. 

B.  Some  suggestions  for  theme  subjects: 

1.  Grandmother's  Cook-Book. 

2.  "  Ready-to-serve  "  and  "  Ready-to-wear." 

3.  The  Relation  of  Food  to  Efficient  Living. 

C.  1.  Is  there  any  connection  between  advertising  and 

extravagance? 

2.  Does  the  value  of  billboard  advertising  offset  the 

disfigurement  of  our  streets,  highways,  and  sky- 
lines? 

3.  Subject  for  debate:  Resolved,  that  advertising  exer- 

cises a  wholesome  influence  on  American  life. 

D.  Make  an  outline  for  a  theme,  showing  how  a  painter,  a 

poet,  a  laborer,  a  business  man,  a  social  worker,  and  a 
Secretary  of  War  would  probably  view  a  foundry. 

E.  Topic  for  discussion:  A  Good  Speaking  Voice  a  Busi- 

ness Asset. 

1.  In  what  vocations  is  it  particularly  essential? 

F.  1.  Name  some  of  the  great  feats  of  engineering  and 

engineers? 

2.  Compare  Kipling's,  Hopkinson  Smith's,  and  Rex 
Beach's  methods  of  telling  a  stirring  narrative  as 
illustrated  in  Bridge  Builders,  Caleb  West,  and 
The  Iron  Trail. 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY  29 

G.  What  sculptors  and  painters  have  succeeded  in  the  por- 
trayal of  modern  industry?  See  introduction  to  Pic- 
tures of  Wonder  of  Work  by  Joseph  Pennell. 

H.  Where  are  the  great  pottery  industries  of  the  United 
States  located?  What  schools  give  courses  in 
ceramics? 

I.  Make  a  three-minute  report  on  the  life  of  Miss  Ida  M. 
Tarbell.  Do  you  agree  with  her  views  expressed  in 
Woman  and  Her  Raiment? 

J.  Where  are  the  granite  and  marble  quarries  of  the  United 
States  located?  Compare  the  methods  of  quarrying 
in  the  United  States  and  England. 

K.  What  role  did  civil  engineering  play  in  the  recent 
Great  War? 

L.  Make  a  list  of  the  men  and  women  most  prominent  in 
American  industrial  life. 

M.  Topic  for  discussion:  Does  the  department  store  offer 
attractive  opportunities  for  the  ambitious  boy  or  girl? 

N.  Define  the  terms:  job,  position,  wages,  salary,  minimum 
wage,  trade,  vocation,  occupation,  industry. 

O.  Interpret  the  following  newspaper  clipping: 

Three  men  are  cutting  stone  up  yonder  in  the 
Cathedral  grounds.  "  What  are  you  doing,  No.  1?  " 
"  I  am  working  for  $6.75  a  day."  "  What  are  you 
doing,  No.  2?  "  "  I  am  squaring  this  stone."  "  What 
are  you  doing,  No.  3?"  "  I  am  helping  to  build 
that,"  and  this  worker,  with  mind  reaching  out  be- 
yond his  toil,  and  with  a  noble  spirit  of  partisanship 
with  the  best,  points  proudly  up  to  the  great  unfin- 
ished Cathedral  on  the  hill. 

(The  Cathedral  is  the  Cathedral  of  Saint  John  the 
Divine  on  Morningside  Heights  in  New  York.) 

P.  Below  are  summaries  of  books,  clipped  from  catalogues. 
Write  similar  terse  comments  on  a  half-dozen  books 
in  the  bibliography. 

1.  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth.     By  Harold 
Bell  Wright. 

In  this  present-day  story  of  desert  life 
and  the  national  reclamation  work  we  have  as 


30  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

clean  and  wholesome  a  book  as  a  man  ever 
wrote;  a  story  of  big  things,  strong  people, 
and  high  ideals.  The  plot,  through  which 
there  runs  an  intense  love  interest,  is  mighty 
in  its  conception  and  is  carried  to  a  satisfac- 
tory close  with  the  smoothness  of  running 
water.  It  is  one  of  big  incidents  and  rapid 
action,  and  bears  a  message  as  broad  as 
humanity  itself. — The  Ministry  of  Capital. 

2.  The  Iron  Trail.    By  Rex  Beach. 

The  hero  of  Rex  Beach's  new  Alaskan 
story  is  just  such  a  man  as  Kipling  had  in 
mind  when  he  wrote  "  If  " — one  who  could 
keep  his  head  in  every  emergency.  There 
were  plenty  of  things  to  stand  up  against,  too 
— other  men's  scheming,  lack  of  funds,  storms, 
glaciers,  and  misrepresentation.  But  he  won 
his  fight  against  Nature  as  he  won  the  heart 
of  the  unusual  heroine. 

3.  Wall  Street  Stories.    By  Edwin  Lefevre. 

In  these  intimate  stories  of  "  the  Street," 
'  the  author,  like  a  keen-eyed,  experienced 
showman,  points  out  to  the  spectator  the 
Bulls  and  Bears,  and  tells  strange  tales  of 
their  habits  and  customs.  Mr.  Lefevre's 
trenchant  pen  draws  the  different  types  that 
fill  the  noisy,  tragic  world  of  speculation. 
This  is  a  book  which  every  man  who  ever 
followed  stock  quotations  will  find  of  absorb- 
ing interest,  and  perhaps  he  may  recognize 
well-known  Wall  Street  characters  beneath 
their  disguises. 

Q.  The  work  of  reclaiming  our  western  deserts  challenges 
the  imagination  and  appeals  to  each  one  according 
to  his  profession.  Plan  a  talk  to  be  given  to  your 
class,  in  which  you  explain  this  work  of  reclamation 
and  show  what  phase  of  it  interests 

1.  The  artist 

2.  The  civil  engineer 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY  31 

3.  The  agriculturist 

4.  The  railroad  magnate 

5.  The  student  of  geography 

The  following  clipping  from  Munsey,  October, 
1917,  will  be  suggestive: 

"  WHEN  HARRIMAN  FOUGHT  A  BIG  RIVER  " 

"  George  Kennan  has  an  eye  for  the  picturesque  in 
his  story  of  '  The  Salton  Sea '  and  Harriman's  fight 
with  the  Colorado  River.  Ages  ago  the  Gulf  of  Cali- 
fornia ran  much  farther  inland  than  now.  The 
Colorado  River,  dumping  its  load  of  silt  into  the 
gulf,  built  a  bar  across  it  and  left  the  upper  waters  to 
burn  out  in  the  desert.  Every  three  or  four  centuries 
the  river,  in  flood,  would  cut  through  its  self-built 
barrier,  and  temporarily  fill  the  basin  with  fresh  water. 

"Men  with  imagination  conceived  the  idea  of  guid- 
ing part  of  the  stream  permanently  into  such  a  chan- 
nel and  using  the  water  to  reclaim,  by  irrigation, 
millions  of  desert  acres.  The  story  of  the  attempt  is 
thrilling.  One  engineer  after  another  tried  and 
failed.  Companies  came  and  went;  the  project  re- 
fused to  die.  At  last  Harriman  undertook  to  dam 
the  stream  with  dollars. 

"  The  great  enterprise  was  well  under  way  when, 
in  1906,  floods  threatened  to  wipe  out  all  the  labor 
of  men's  hands,  and  to  destroy  the  homes  and  prop- 
erty of  some  twelve  thousand  people  settled  in  the 
valley.  The  fertilizing  stream  had  become  a  destroy- 
ing torrent,  and  the  Colorado  was  pouring  into  the 
Salton  basin  more  than  four  billion  cubic  feet  of  water 
every  twenty-four  hours. 

"  Harriman  had  hurried  to  San  Francisco  to  help 
that  city  in  its  distress.  It  was  in  April,  just  after 
the  earthquake  and  fire.  The  president  of  the  Cali- 
fornia Development  Company  hastened  to  see  Presi- 
dent Harriman  of  the  Southern  Pacific  Railway 
Company,  and  told  him  what  was  happening. 


32  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  There,  in  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  temporary 
offices,  with  the  ruins  of  San  Francisco  still  smoking, 
with  the  facilities  of  his  roads  taxed  to  the  utmost  in 
carrying  people  away  from  the  stricken  city,  with 
the  wonderful  railway  system  which  constituted  his 
life-work  crippled  to  an  unknown  extent,  he  consented 
to  advance  an  additional  sum  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars  for  controlling  the  river  and 
protecting  the  valley. 

"  Ten  years  ago  the  Imperial  Valley  yielded,  from 
its  once  desert  soil,  crops  worth  twelve  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  a  year.  Now  its  cotton,  barley,  fruit  and 
vegetables,  and  the  live  stock  that  crops  its  grasses, 
represent  an  annual  production  of  ten  times 
the  amount." 
R.  Do  you  agree  to  the  following  statement: 

"  If  you  want  to  know  whether  you  are  going  to 
be  a  success  or  a  failure  in  life,"  said  James  J.  Hill, 
"  you  can  easily  find  out.  The  test  is  simple  and 
infallible.  Are  you  able  to  save  money?  If  not, 
drop  out.  You  will  lose.  You  may  not  think  it,  but 
you  will  lose  as  sure  as  you  live.  The  seed  of  suc- 
cess is  not  in  you." 

S.  The  following  diagram  was  made  by  Mr.  Henry  J. 
Fischer  of  Cleveland,  Ohio,  and  is  reproduced  here 
by  courtesy  of  The  Independent. 

1.  What  is  the  relation  of  thrift  to  character? 

2.  What  is  the  relation  of  thrift  to  work? 

3.  Americans  are  said  to  be  an  extravagant  people, 

and  the  French  thrifty.  What  is  your  opinion? 

4.  What  plan  of  saving  would  you  advocate  for 

the  wage-earner,  so   that  his  old   age  may 
be  independent? 

5.  What  is  your  opinion  of  the  accompanying  dia- 

gram?   Is    it    accurate,    according   to    your 

observations? 

T.  One  critic  writes:  "  In  this  day  of  storm  and  stress  one 
cannot  read  Miss  Morgan's  poem  entitled  Kinship 
without  being  touched  to  finer  issues,  even  in  the  dis- 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY 


33 


DIAGRAM  SHOWING  THAT  THE  HABIT  OF  SAVING  MUST  BE  FORMED  AND 
EXERCISED  EARLY  IN  LIFE 


Everything  to 
gain  and 
nothing  to 
20         \       lose. 


This 

is  the  egotistical 
period — when 
the  son  thinks  he 
knows  more  than 
his  father.  This 
space  represents 
the  eon's  egotism. 


Age  of  wild  oats. 


This  space  represents  man's  accu- 
mulating period.      Either  success 
or  failure  is  settled.    No  days  of 
grace  are  allowed. 


30 


NOW  OR 


The  boy 
is  now 
chang- 
ing his 
mind 
and  con- 
cludes 
he 

doesn't 
know  as 
much  as 
he  im- 
agined. 
He  now 
considers 
his  father 
a  man  of 
fair  judg- 
ment. 


35 

The  son 
realizes 
that  life 
is  a  real- 
ity and 
he  is  not 
as  smart 
as  he 
once 
thought. 
The 
father 
was  a 
man  of 
master 
mind. 


NEVER 


Danger  line. 


40 


97  per 
cent,  of 
men  here 
meet 
with  re- 
verses 
and  lose 
their  en- 
tire ac- 
cumula- 
tions. 


45 


By  this 
age  97 
per 
cent, 
have 
lost  all. 


This  is  the  age  of 
caution  as  man  must 
not  speculate,  for  he 
has  all  to  lose  and 
nothing  to  gain. 
He  looks  for  security, 
not  high  rates  of 
interest. 


50 


After  this 
age  but  one  in 
5,000  can  recover 
his  financial  footing. 


wl 

3  §• 

II 
II 

S3 

c  *» 
%  •- 


60 


If  you  do  not  securely  lay  up  during  the  harvest,  the  drouth  of  old  age  will 
catch  you  without  provender  at  sixty. 


charge  of  the  simplest  duties.  Her  words  carry  in 
them  a  magic  glow.  Read  this  poem  quietly  and 
then  aloud,  and  feel  its  warm  beat  and  musi- 
cal rhythm." 

Carry  out  the  suggestion  in  the  last  sentence. 
Write  a  short  paragraph  interpreting  this  poem, 
Kinship,  found  in  The  Hour  Has  Struck. 
U.  Show  that  the  following  passage  from  the  Marble  Faun, 
by  Hawthorne,  chap.  5,  is  an  illustration  of  good 
paragraph  structure.  Find  other  paragraphs  in  this 
text  that  illustrate  the  laws  of  unity  and  coherence 
in  paragraph  structure. 

"There  is  something  extremely  pleasant,  and  even 
touching — at  least,  of  very  sweet,  soft  and  winning 


34  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

effect — in  this  peculiarity  of  needlework,  distinguish- 
ing women  from  men.  Our  own  sex  is  incapable  of 
any  such  by-play  aside  from  the  main  business  of 
life;  but  women — be  they  of  what  earthly  rank  they 
may,  however  gifted  with  intellect  or  genius,  or  en- 
dowed with  awful  beauty — have  always  some  little 
handiwork  ready  to  fill  the  tiny  gap  of  every  vacant 
moment.  A  needle  is  familiar  to  the  fingers  of  them 
all.  A  queen,  no  doubt,  plies  it  on  occasion;  the 
woman  poet  can  use  it  as  adroitly  as  her  pen;  the 
woman's  eye,  that  has  discovered  a  new  star,  turns 
from  its  glory  to  send  the  polished  little  instrument 
gleaming  along  the  hem  of  her  kerchief,  or  to  darn 
a  casual  fray  in  her  dress.  And  they  have  greatly 
the  advantage  of  us  in  this  respect.  The  slender 
thread  of  silk  or  cotton  keeps  them  united  with  the 
small,  familiar,  gentle  interests  of  life,  the  continually 
operating  influences  of  which  do  so  much  for  the 
health  of  the  character,  and  carry  off  what  would 
otherwise  be  a  dangerous  accumulation  of  morbid 
sensibility.  A  vast  deal  of  human  sympathy  runs 
along  this  electric  line,  stretching  from  the  throne  to 
the  wicker  chair  of  the  humblest  seamstress,  and 
keeping  high  and  low  in  a  species  of  communion  with 
their  kindred  beings.  Methinks  it  is  a  token  of 
healthy  and  gentle  characteristics,  when  women  of 
high  thoughts  and  accomplishments  love  to  sew; 
especially  as  they  are  never  more  at  home  with  their 
own  hearts  than  while  so  occupied." 

V.  You  will  find  in  Old  Chester  Tales,  by  Margaret  Deland, 
a  story  of  an  untrained  woman  who  is  confronted 
with  the  necessity  of  making  her  living.  Read  the 
story  and  make  an  outline  for  a  talk  to  your  class, 
contrasting  the  education  described  in  the  story  and 
the  kind  of  education  a  girl  receives  in  a  modern 
high  school.  In  what  respects  is  the  girl  of  to-day  the 
gainer  and  in  what  respects  the  loser? 


SUGGESTIONS  FOR  STUDY  35 

W.  At  the  conclusion  of  your  study  of  this  text-book,  make 
a  list  of  the  titles  that  you  think  would  be  appropriate 
for  it.  Which  one  is  most  fitting? 

Compare: 

Day's  Work,  Rudyard  Kipling. 

Livelihood,  Wilfrid  Gibson. 

Daily  Bread,  Wilfrid  Gibson. 

Songs  of  a  Workaday  World,  Berton  Braley. 

The  World's  Work  (Magazine). 


WORK 
BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

Let  me  but  do  my  work  from  day  to  day, 

In  field  or  forest,  at  the  desk  or  loom, 
In  roaring  market-place  or  tranquil  room. 

Let  me  but  find  it  in  my  heart  to  say, 
When  vagrant  wishes  beckon  me  astray, 

"  This  is  my  work;  my  blessing,  not  my  doom; 
Of  all  who  live,  I  am  the  one  by  whom 

This  work  can  best  be  done  in  the  right  way." 

Then  shall  I  see  it  not  too  great,  nor  small, 
To  suit  my  spirit  and  to  prove  my  powers; 

Then  shall  I  cheerful  greet  the  laboring  hours, 
And  cheerful  turn,  when  the  long  shadows  fall, 

At  eventide,  to  play  and  love  and  rest; 
Because  I  know  for  me  my  work  is  best. 


36 


WORK:  A  SONG  OF  TRIUMPH 

BY  ANGELA  MORGAN 

Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  might  of  it, 
The  ardor,  the  urge,  the  delight  of  it — 
Work  that  springs  from  the  heart's  desire, 
Setting  the  brain  and  the  soul  on  fire- 
On,  what  is  so  good  as  the  heat  of  it, 
And  what  is  so  glad  as  the  beat  of  it, 
And  what  is  so  kind  as  the  stern  command, 
Challenging  brain  and  heart  and  hand? 

Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  pride  of  it, 

For  the  beautiful,  conquering  tide  of  it, 

Sweeping  the  life  in  its  furious  flood, 

Thrilling  the  arteries,  cleansing  the  blood, 

Mastering  stupor  and  dull  despair, 

Moving  the  dreamer  to  do  or  dare. 

Oh,  what  is  so  good  as  the  urge  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  glad  as  the  surge  of  it, 

And  what  is  so  strong  as  the  summons  deep, 

Rousing  the  torpid  soul  from  sleep? 

Work! 

Thank  God  for  the  pace  of  it, 

For  the  terrible,  keen,  swift  race  of  it; 

Fiery  steeds  in  full  control, 

Nostrils  a-quiver  to  greet  the  goal. 

Work,  the  Power  that  drives  behind, 

Guiding  the  purposes,  taming  the  mind, 

Holding  the  runaway  wishes  back, 

Reigning  the  will  to  one  steady  track, 

Speeding  the  energies  faster,  faster, 

Triumphing  over  disaster. 

37 


38  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Workl 

Thank  God  for  the  swing  of  it, 

For  the  clamoring,  hammering  ring  of  it, 

Passion  of  labor  daily  hurled 

On  the  mighty  anvils  of  the  world. 

Oh,  what  is  so  fierce  as  the  flame  of  it? 

And  what  is  so  huge  as  the  aim  of  it? 

Thundering  on  through  dearth  and  doubt, 

Calling  the  plan  of  the  Maker  out. 

Work,  the  Titan;  Work,  the  friend, 

Shaping  the  earth  to  a  glorious  end, 

Draining  the  swamps  and  blasting  the  hills, 

Doing  whatever  the  Spirit  wills — 

Rending  a  continent  apart, 

To  answer  the  dream  of  the  Master  heart. 

Thank  God  for  a  world  where  none  may  shirk — 

Thank  God  for  the  splendor  of  work! 


KEEP  ON  WORKING 

BY  RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON 

HEALTH,  work,  and  religion  are  the  three  things  which  make  life 
least  a  bore  and  most  a  blessing.  Nor  need  work  apologize  to  the 
other  two.  Work  of  the  right  kind  conduces  to  health  and  becomes 
religion;  hence  the  Scriptural  commendation  of  good  workmen  by 
Solomon:  "  They  shall  maintain  the  fabric  of  the  world,  and  in  the 
handiwork  of  their  craft  is  their  prayer." 

It  was  Burke,  I  believe,  who  with  this  in  mind  offered  the  advice: 
"  Work,  work,  and  never  despair;  but  even  if  you  do  despair,  keep 
on  working."  He  knew  it  for  a  chief  antidote  against  hopelessness. 

Ruskin  once  said  that  there  were  three  desiderata  for  a  happy 
life:  congenial  work,  not  too  much  of  it,  and  a  fair  return  for  one's 
labor.  As  to  this  last,  he  did  not  mean  a  mere  reward  in  money, 
but  a  sense  in  the  worker  that  his  product  is  of  use,  of  value  to 
fellow-men,  that  he  has  not  in  this  sense  labored  in  vain.  The 
return  may  come  in  the  respect  of  the  community,  its  readiness  to 
intrust  him  with  some  undertaking  of  importance  to  the  general  weal 
— in  this,  rather  than  in  the  sum  he  is  paid.  The  big  thing  is  the 
consciousness  in  the  worker  that  he  is  a  help,  not  a  hindrance,  to  the 
social  machine;  that  he  makes  something  that  has  beauty  or  utility 
or,  better  yet,  both. 

The  number  of  those  who  work  in  a  way  to  illustrate  Ruskin 's 
ideal  makes  but  a  small  fraction  of  the  great  army  of  workers.  Con- 
sider the  misfits,  for  one  thing.  It  is  astonishing  how  many  folk 
will  say  to  you,  "  My  business  is  merely  a  manner  of  money-getting. 
It  is  distasteful  to  me  in  the  extreme,  and  I  would  get  out  of  it 
to-morrow  if  I  could.  My  pleasure  comes  from  the  hours  outside 
my  work."  What  a  pity  this  is,  for  if  a  human  being  has  any  right, 
it  is  the  right  of  congenial  employment,  the  chance  to  do  what  he 
is  interested  in,  that  which  stimulates  his  faculties  and  draws  out  his 
best  endeavor.  It  is  only  by  doing  such  work  that  he  becomes  of 

Taken  from  Burton's  Little  Essays  in  Literature  and  Life,  by  per- 
mission of  The  Century  Co. 

39 


40  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

fudl  value  to  society.  But  for  various  reasons  mortals  go  into  work 
for  other  than  the  imperative  reason  of  calling:  because  the  business 
was  handed  down  from  father  to  son;  because  a  stern  necessity  of 
self-support  demanded  that  the  first  work  that  came  to  hand  should 
be  done;  or,  again,  because  the  rewards  wer3  so  glittering  that  repug- 
nance was  overcome.  And  yet,  surely,  all  men  and  women  should 
be  doing  the  manner  of  work  most  to  their  liking,  most  expressive 
of  their  personality;  the  one  thing  they  were  born  to  do,  and  therefore 
can  do  happily  and  do  best. 

Parents  have  a  terrible  responsibility  here,  and  too  often  mis- 
conceive it,  when  they  compel  their  young  ones  to  take  up  some 
form  of  activity  not  suited  to  their  powers.  It  would  be  well  to 
understand  that,  whenever  serious-minded,  well-meaning  young 
persons  have  a  deep  conviction  that  a  certain  sort  of  work  calls  them, 
they  should  be  allowed  to  give  it  a  trial.  By  doing  so,  either  they 
find  that  it  is  their  true  occupation,  or  not,  and  so,  satisfied,  turn  to 
other  work.  But  if  they  do  not  give  it  a  trial,  they  will  be  dissat- 
isfied to  their  death-day.  The  beginning  and  basis  of  the  right 
kind  of  life,  then,  is  choosing  wisely  one's  work.  The  world  has  no 
use  for  misfits,  and  the  misfits  are  unhappy,  poor  creatures,  when 
half  the  time  it  is  not  altogether  their  fault,  but  the  fault  of  their 
environment  or  necessity. 

Think,  also,  of  the  immense  number  of  human  beings  who  work 
under  the  wrong  conditions:  hours  overlong,  work-places  lacking  air 
and  light,  needless  harshness,  even  cruelty,  of  employers,  the  nature 
of  the  toil  brutalizing  and  demoralizing.  The  figures  would  sadden, 
and  the  facts  appal,  could  they  be  comprehended  to  their  full  extent. 
It  was  with  this  abuse  of  work,  as  it  touched  the  children,  in  mind 
that  great-hearted  Mrs.  Browning,  half  a  century  ago,  wrote  that 
piercing  Cry  of  the  Children  which,  in  its  white-hot  passion  of 
loving  sorrow,  was  one  of  the  documents  of  the  day,  and  led  on  to  our 
own,  when  industrial  conditions  are  being  bettered. 

Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  disproving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  His  world's  loving, 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

Even  when  the  physical  conditions  that  surround  the  work  are 
endurable  or  pleasant,  that  work  is  not  what  it  should  be  that  lacks 


4- 

i 


.  Jin 


CARRIER.       BY   CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 


KEEP  ON  WORKING  41 

a  sense  of  aim  and  accomplishment.  It  is  better  to  make  something 
one  can  take  a  pleasure  in  the  making  of;  but  how  seldom  is  that 
true  of  the  worker!  Grant,  with  the  old  poet,  that  to  sweep  a  room 
in  the  right  spirit  "makes  that  and  the  action  fine";  still,  to  be 
honest,  there  is  work  and  work,  and  it  is  hard  to  see  how  the  labor 
of  a  man  in  the  stockyards,  in  whatever  spirit  done,  can  give  that 
inward  satisfaction  which  ought  to  come  from  every  kind  of  human 
labor,  no  matter  how  fruitless  or  lowly. 

A  special  danger  has  arisen  from  the  modern  differentiation  of 
work,  for  the  reason  that,  where  once  the  head,  hand,  and  heart  col- 
laborated in  a  trinity  of  activity  to  the  making  of  a  seemly  whole, 
now,  with  the  advent  of  machinery,  the  labor  has  largely  become 
partial,  blind,  and  so  pleasureless.  To  make  a  pin  may  not  be 
esthetic  work,  but  it  is  much  better  than  to  make  the  head  of  a  pin, 
because  in  the  former  case  you  are  at  least  intelligently  producing 
something  of  wholeness  and  usefulness.  Manhood  and  womanhood 
should  be  retained  in  the  work,  but  to  make  the  head  of  a  pin  has 
the  tendency  to  make  a  machine  out  of  a  human  being;  it  is  not  a 
finished  product,  but  merely  part  of  the  process  of  its  making. 

It  is  a  satire  to  talk  about  pleasure  in  one's  work  under  some 
conditions.  The  present-day  handicraft  movement  is  a  reaction  to 
the  better  conditions  of  work  in  an  age  past  when  the  artisan,  the 
workman,  was  also  the  artist,  having  joy  of  his  labor,  and  so  pre- 
serving his  humanity.  Doutbless,  we  shall  gradually  so  alter  the 
social  wrongs  and  evils  which  now  make  this  planet  appear  a  little 
damaged,  and  install  the  worker  in  work  so  congenial,  so  close-fitted 
to  his  aptitude  and  desire,  that  it  will  be  his  deepest  satisfaction  and 
most  lasting  solace:  that  which  steadies,  rectifies,  uplifts,  and  rejoices 
him  throughout  his  days  and  up  to  the  final  rest.  Nay,  are  we  not 
altering  our  conceptions  of  Heaven  in  order  to  allow  of  happy,  useful, 
unselfish  work  there — work,  instead  of  the  older  notion  of  sitting 
around  in  an  elegant  leisure  enlivened  by  select  music? 

Work,  ideally,  should  be  congenial,  fruitful,  and  the  worker 
aware  of  his  worth  to  the  world.  Nobody  works  harder  than  the 
idler;  he  has  on  his  hands  the  dire  task  of  killing  time.  Knowing 
the  awfulness  of  vacuity,  he  fills  the  day  with  a  semblance  of  activity, 
while  gnawing  at  his  peace  is  a  sense  of  the  barren  folly  of  it  all. 
The  finest  argument  for  real  work  is  the  spectacle  of  its  counter- 
feit presentment. 


THE  MAIL-ORDER  HOUSE 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 

THERE  are  business  organizations  in  America  of  a  species  which 
do  not  flourish  at  all  in  Europe.  For  example,  the  "  mail-order 
house,"  whose  secrets  were  very  generously  displayed  to  me  in 
Chicago — a  peculiar  establishment  which  sells  nearly  everything 
(except  patent-medicines) — on  condition  that  you  order  it  by  post. 
Go  into  that  house  with  money  in  your  palm,  and  ask  for  a  fan  or 
a  flail  or  a  fur-coat  or  a  fountain-pen  or  a  fiddle,  and  you  will  be 
requested  to  return  home  and  write  a  letter  about  the  proposed  pur- 
chase, and  stamp  the  letter  and  drop  it  into  a  mail-box,  and  then  wait 
till  the  article  arrives  at  your  door.  That  house  is  one  of  the  most 
spectacular  and  pleasing  proofs  that  the  inhabitants  of  the  United 
States  are  thinly  scattered  over  an  enormous  area,  in  tiny  groups, 
often  quite  isolated  from  stores.  On  the  day  of  my  visit  sixty 
thousand  letters  had  been  received,  and  every  executable  order  con- 
tained in  these  was  executed  before  closing  time,  by  the  coordinated 
efforts  of  over  four  thousand  female  employees  and  over  three  thou- 
sand males.  The  conception  would  make  Europe  dizzy.  Imagine  a 
merchant  in  Moscow  trying  to  inaugurate  such  a  scheme! 

A  little  machine  no  bigger  than  a  soup-plate  will  open  hundreds 
of  envelopes  at  once.  They  are  all  the  same,  those  envelopes;  they 
have  even  less  individuality  than  sheep  being  sheared,  but  when  the 
contents  of  one — any  one  at  random — are  put  into  your  hand,  some- 
thing human  and  distinctive  is  put  into  your  hand.  I  read  the 
caligraphy  on  a  blue  sheet  of  paper,  and  it  was  written  by  a  woman 
in  Wyoming,  a  neat,  earnest,  harassed,  and  possibly  rather  harassing 
woman,  and  she  wanted  all  sorts  of  things  and  wanted  them  intensely 
—I  could  see  that  with  clearness.  This  complex  purchase  was  an 
important  event  in  her  year.  So  far  as  her  imagination  went,  only 
one  mail-order  would  reach  the  Chicago  house  that  morning,  and  the 
entire  establishment  would  be  strained  to  meet  it. 

Then  the  blue  sheet  was  taken  from  me  and  thrust  into  the  sys- 
tem, and  therein  lost  to  me.  I  was  taken  to  a  mysteriously  rumbling 
shaft  of  broad  diameter,  that  pierced  all  the  floors  of  the  house  and 
42 


THE  MAIL-ORDER  HOUSE  43 

had  trap-doors  on  each  floor.  And  when  one  of  the  trap-doors  was 
opened  1  saw  packages  of  all  descriptions  racing  after  one  another 
down  spiral  planes  within  the  shaft.  There  were  several  of  these 
shafts — with  divisions  for  mail,  express  and  freight  traffic — and  pack- 
ages were  ceaselessly  racing  down  all  of  them,  laden  with  the  objects 
desired  by  the  woman  of  Wyoming  and  her  fifty-nine-thousand-odd 
fellow-customers  of  the  day.  At  first  it  seemed  to  me  impossible 
that  that  earnest,  impatient  woman  in  Wyoming  should  get  precisely 
what  she  wanted;  it  seemed  to  me  impossible  that  some  mistake 
should  not  occur  in  all  that  noisy  fever  of  rushing  activity.  But 
after  I  had  followed  an  order,  and  seen  it  filled  and  checked,  my 
opinion  was  that  a  mistake  would  be  the  most  miraculous  phenom- 
enon in  that  establishment.  I  felt  quite  reassured  on  behalf 
of  Wyoming. 

And  then  I  was  suddenly  in  a  room  where  six:  hundred  billing- 
machines  were  being  clicked  at  once  by  six  hundred  young  women, 
a  fantastic  aural  nightmare,  though  none  of  the  young  women 
appeared  to  be  conscious  that  anything  bizarre  was  going  on.  ... 
And  then  I  was  in  a  printing-shop,  where  several  lightning  machines 
spent  their  whole  time  every  day  in  printing  the  most  popular  work 
of  reference  in  the  United  States,  a  bulky  book  full  of  pictures,  with 
an  annual  circulation  of  five  and  a  half  million  copies — the  general 
catalogue  of  the  firm.  For  the  first  time  I  realized  the  true  meaning 
of  the  word  "  popularity  " — and  sighed.  .  .  . 

And  then  it  was  lunch  time  for  about  a  couple  of  thousand 
employees  and  in  the  boundless  restaurant  I  witnessed  the  working 
of  the  devices  which  enabled  these  legions  to  choose  their  meals,  and 
pay  for  them  (cost  price)  in  a  few  minutes,  and  without  advanced 
mathematical  calculations.  The  young  head  of  the  restaurant  showed 
me,  with  pride,  a  menu  of  over  a  hundred  dishes — Austrian,  German, 
Hungarian,  Italian,  Scotch,  French  and  American — at  prices  from 
one  cent  up  as  high  as  ten  cents  (prime  roast-beef) — and  at  the  foot 
of  the  menu  was  his  personal  appeal:  "  I  desire  to  extend  to  you  a 
cordial  invitation  to  inspect,"  etc.  "  My  constant  aim  will  be,"  etc. 
Yet  it  was  not  his  restaurant.  It  was  the  firm's  restaurant.  Here 
I  had  a  curious  illustration  of  an  admirable  characteristic  of  Ameri- 
can business  methods  that  was  always  striking  me — namely,  the  real 
delegation  of  responsibility.  An  American  board  of  direction  will 
put  a  man  in  charge  of  a  department,  as  a  viceroy  over  a  province, 


44  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

saying,  as  it  were:  "  This  is  yours.  Do  as  you  please  with  it.  We 
will  watch  the  results."  A  marked  contrast  this  with  the  central- 
izing of  authority  which  seems  to  be  ever  proceeding  in  Europe,  and 
which  breeds  in  all  classes  at  all  ages — especially  in  France — a  morbid 
fear  and  horror  of  accepting  responsibility. 

Later,  I  was  on  the  ground  level,  in  the  midst  of  an  enormous 
apparent  confusion — the  target  for  all  the  packages  and  baskets, 
big  and  little,  that  shot  every  instant  in  a  continuous  stream  from 
those  spiral  planes,  and  slid  dangerously  at  me  along  the  floors. 
Here  were  the  packers.  I  saw  a  packer  deal  with  a  collected  order, 
and  in  this  order  were  a  number  of  tiny  crockery  utensils,  a  four-cent 
curling  iron,  a  brush,  and  two  incredibly  ugly  pink  china  mugs, 
inscribed  in  cheap  gilt  respectively  with  the  words  "  Father  "  and 
"  Mother."  Throughout  my  stay  in  America  no  moment  came  to 
me  more  dramatically  than  this  moment,  and  none  has  remained  more 
vividly  in  my  mind.  All  the  daily  domestic  life  of  the  small  com- 
munities in  the  wilds  of  the  West  and  the  Middle  West,  and  in  the 
wilds  of  the  back  streets  of  the  great  towns,  seemed  to  be  revealed 
to  me  by  the  contents  of  that  basket,  as  the  packer  wrapped  up  and 
protected  one  article  after  another.  I  had  been  compelled  to  abandon 
a  visitation  of  the  West  and  of  the  small  communities  elsewhere, 
and  I  was  sorry.  But  here  in  a  microcosm  I  thought  I  saw  the  simple 
reality  of  the  backbone  of  all  America,  a  symbol  of  the  millions  of 
the  little  plain  people,  who  ultimately  make  possible  the  glory  of  the 
world-renowned  streets  and  institutions  in  dazzling  cities. 

There  was  something  indescribably  touching  in  that  curling-iron 
and  those  two  mugs.  I  could  see  the  table  on  which  the  mugs  would 
soon  proudly  stand,  and  "  father  "  and  "  mother "  and  children 
thereat,  and  I  could  see  the  hand  heating  the  curling-iron  and  apply- 
ing it.  I  could  see  the  whole  little  home  and  the  whole  life  of  the 
little  home.  .  .  .  And  afterward,  as  I  wandered  through  the  ware- 
houses— pyramids  of  the  same  chair,  cupboards  full  of  the  same 
cheap  violin,  stacks  of  the  same  album  music,  acres  of  the  same 
carpet,  and  wallpaper,  tons  of  the  same  gramaphone,  hundreds  of 
tons  of  the  same  sewing-machine  and  lawn-mower — I  felt  as  if 
I  had  been  made  free  of  the  secrets  of  every  village  in  every  State 
of  the  Union,  and  as  if  I  had  lived  in  every  little  house  and  cottage 
thereof  all  my  life!  Almost  no  sense  of  beauty  in  those  tremendous 
supplies  of  merchandise,  but  a  lot  of  honesty,  self-respect  and  ambi- 


THE  MAIL-ORDER  HOUSE  45 

tion  fulfilled.    I  tell  you  I  could  hear  the  engaged  couples  discussing 
ardently  over  the  pages  of  the  catalogue  what  design  of  sideboard. 

Finally,  I  arrived  at  the  firm's  private  railway  station,  where  a 
score  or  more  trucks  were  being  laden  with  the  multifarious  boxes, 
bales  and  parcels,  all  to  leave  that  evening  for  romantic  destinations 
such  as  Oregon,  Texas,  and  Wyoming.  Yes,  the  package  of  the 
woman  of  Wyoming's  desire  would  ultimately  be  placed  somewhere 
in  one  of  those  trucks!  It  was  going  to  start  off  to  her  that 
very  night! 


THE  AMERICAN  TELEPHONE 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 

WHAT  strikes  and  frightens  the  backward  European  as  much  as 
anything  in  the  United  States  is  the  efficiency  and  fearful  universal- 
ity of  the  telephone.  Just  as  I  think  of  the  big  cities  as  agglomera- 
tions pierced  everywhere  by  elevator-shafts  full  of  movement,  so  I 
think  of  them  as  being  threaded,  under  pavements  and  over  roofs 
and  between  floors  and  ceilings  and  between  walls,  by  millions  upon 
millions  of  live  filaments  that  unite  all  the  privacies  of  the  organism 
— and  destroy  them  in  order  to  make  one  immense  publicity!  I  do 
not  mean  that  Europe  has  failed  to  adopt  the  telephone,  nor  that  in 
Europe  there  are  no  hotels  with  the  dreadful  curse  of  an  active 
telephone  in  every  room.  But  I  do  mean  that  the  European  tele- 
phone is  a  toy,  and  a  somewhat  clumsy  one,  compared  with  the 
inexorable  seriousness  of  the  American  telephone.  Many  otherwise 
highly  civilized  Europeans  are  as  timid  in  addressing  a  telephone  as 
they  would  be  in  addressing  a  royal  sovereign.  The  average  European 
middle  class  householder  still  speaks  of  his  telephone,  if  he  has  one, 
in  the  same  falsely  casual  tone  as  the  corresponding  American  is 
liable  to  speak  of  his  motor  car.  It  is  naught — a  negligible  trifle — 
but  somehow  it  comes  into  the  conversation! 

It  is  the  efficiency  of  the  telephone  that  makes  it  irresistible  to  a 
great  people  whose  passion  is  to  "  get  results  " — the  instancy  with 
which  the  communication  is  given,  and  the  clear  loudness  of  the 
telephone's  voice  in  reply  to  yours:  phenomena  utterly  unknown  in 
Europe.  Were  I  to  inhabit  the  United  States,  I,  too,  should  become 
a  victim  of  the  telephone  habit. 

Now  it  is  obvious  that  behind  the  apparently  simple  exterior 
aspects  of  any  telephone  system  there  must  be  an  intricate  and  mar- 
velous secret  organization.  In  Europe  my  curiosity  would  probably 
never  have  been  excited  by  the  thought  of  that  organization — at 
home  one  accepts  everything  as  of  course! — but  in  the  United  States, 
partly  because  the  telephone  is  so  much  more  wonderful  and  terrible 
there,  and  partly  because  in  a  foreign  land  one  is  apt  to  have  strange 
caprices,  I  allowed  myself  to  become  the  prey  of  a  desire  to  see  the 
46 


THE  AMERICAN  TELEPHONE  47 

arcanum  concealed  at  the  other  end  of  all  the  wires;  and  thus,  one 
day,  under  the  high  protection  of  a  demigod  of  the  electrical  world, 
I  paid  a  visit  to  a  telephone-exchange  in  New  York,  and  saw  therein 
what  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  out  of  every  thousand  of  the 
most  ardent  telephone  users  seldom  think  about  and  will  never  see. 

A  murmuring  sound,  as  of  an  infinity  of  scholars  in  a  prim  school 
conning  their  lessons,  and  a  long  row  of  young  women  seated  in  a  dim 
radiance  on  a  long  row  of  precisely  similar  stools,  before  a  long 
apparatus  of  holes  and  pegs  and  pieces  of  elastic  cord,  all  extremely 
intent:  that  was  the  first  broad  impression.  One  saw  at  once  that 
none  of  these  young  women  had  a  single  moment  to  spare;  they 
were  all  involved  in  the  tremendous  machine,  part  of  it,  keeping 
pace  with  it  and  in  it,  and  not  daring  to  take  their  eyes  off  it  for  an 
instant,  lest  they  should  sin  against  it.  What  they  were  droning 
about  it  was  impossible  to  guess;  for  if  one  stationed  oneself  close 
to  any  particular  rapt  young  woman,  she  seemed  to  utter  no  sound, 
but  simply  and  without  ceasing  to  peg  and  unpeg  holes  at  random 
among  the  thousands  of  holes  before  her,  apparently  in  obedience 
to  the  signaling  of  faint,  tiny  lights  that  in  thousands  continually 
expired  and  were  rekindled.  (It  was  so  that  these  tiny  lights  should 
be  distinguishable  that  the  illumination  of  the  secret  and  finely 
appointed  chamber  was  kept  dim.)  Throughout  the  whole  length 
of  the  apparatus  the  colored  elastic  cords  to  which  the  pegs  were 
attached  kept  crossing  one  another  in  fantastic  patterns. 

We  who  had  entered  were  ignored.  We  might  have  been  ghosts, 
invisible  and  inaudible.  Even  the  supervisors,  less-young  women 
set  in  authority,  did  not  turn  to  glance  at  us  as  they  moved  rest- 
lessly peering  behind  the  stools.  And  yet  somehow  I  could  hear  the 
delicate  shoulders  of  all  the  young  women  saying,  without  speech: 
"  Here  come  these  tyrants  and  taskmasters  again,  who  have  invented 
this  exercise  which  nearly  but  not  quite  cracks  our  little  brains  for 
us!  They  know  exactly  how  much  they  can  get  out  of  us,  and  they 
get  it.  They  are  cleverer  than  us  and  more  powerful  than  us;  and 
we  have  to  submit  to  their  discipline.  But—  And  afar  off  I 
could  hear:  "  What  are  you  going  to  wear  to-night?  "  "  Will  you 
dine  with  me  to-night?  "  "  I  want  two  seats."  "  Very  well,  thanks, 

and  how  is  Mrs.  ?  "  "  When  can  I  see  you  to-morrow?  " 

"  I'll  take  your  offer  for  those  bonds."  .  .  .  And  I  could  see  the 
interiors  of  innumerable  offices  and  drawing-rooms.  .  .  .  But, 


48  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

of  course,  I  could  hear  and  see  nothing  really  except  the  intent  drone 
and  quick  gesturing  of  those  completely  absorbed  young  creatures  in 
the  dim  radiance,  on  stools  precisely  similar. 

I  understood  why  the  telephone  service  was  so  efficient.  I  under- 
stood not  merely  from  the  demeanor  of  the  long  row  of  young 
women,  but  from  everything  else  I  had  seen  in  the  exact  and  diabol- 
ically ingenious  ordering  of  the  whole  establishment. 

We  were  silent  for  a  time,  as  though  we  had  entered  a  church. 
We  were,  perhaps  unconsciously,  abashed  by  the  intensity  of  the 
absorption  of  these  neat  young  women.  After  a  while  one  of  the 
guides,  one  of  the  inscrutable  beings  who  had  helped  to  invent  and 
construct  the  astounding  organism,  began  in  a  low  voice  on  the 
forlorn  hope  of  making  me  comprehend  the  mechanism  of  a  tele- 
phone-call and  its  response.  And  I  began  on  the  forlorn  hope  of 
persuading  him  by  intelligent  acting  that  I  did  comprehend.  We 
each  made  a  little  progress.  I  could  not  tell  him  that,  though  I 
genuinely  and  humbly  admired  his  particular  variety  of  genius,  what 
interested  me  in  the  affair  was  not  the  mechanics,  but  the  human 
equation.  As  a  professional  reader  of  faces,  I  glanced  as  well  as  I 
could  sideways  at  those  bent  girls'  faces  to  see  if  they  were  happy. 
An  absurd  inquiry!  Do  /  look  happy  when  I'm  at  work,  I  wonder! 
Did  they  then  look  reasonably  content?  Well,  I  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  they  looked  like  most  other  faces — neither  one  thing  nor 
the  other.  Still,  in  a  great  establishment,  I  would  sooner  search  for 
sociological  information  in  the  faces  of  the  employed  than  in  the 
managerial  rules. 

"  What  do  they  earn?  "  I  asked,  when  we  emerged  from  the 
ten-atmosphere  pressure  of  that  intense  absorption.  (Of  course,  I 
knew  that  no  young  woman  could  possibly  for  any  length  of  time 
be  as  intensely  absorbed  as  these  appeared  to  be.  But  the  illusion 
was  there,  and  it  was  effective.) 

I  learned  that  even  the  lowest  beginner  earned  five  dollars  a 
week.  It  was  just  the  sum  I  was  paying  for  a  pair  of  clean  sheets 
every  night  at  a  grand  hotel.  And  that  the  salary  rose  to  six,  seven, 
eight,  eleven,  and  even  fourteen  dollars  for  supervisors,  who,  how- 
ever, had  to  stand  on  their  feet  seven  and  a  half  hours  a  day,  as 
shopgirls  do  for  ten  hours  a  day;  and  that  in  general  the  girls  had 
thirty  minutes  for  lunch,  and  a  day  off  every  week,  and  that  the 
company  supplied  them  gratuitously  with  tea,  coffee,  sugar,  couches, 


THE  AMERICAN  TELEPHONE  49 

newspapers,  arm-chairs,  and  fresh  air,  of  which  last  fifty  fresh  cubic 
feet  were  pumped  in  for  every  operator  every  minute. 

"  Naturally,"  I  was  told,  "  the  discipline  is  strict.  There  are 
test  wires.  .  .  .  We  can  check  the  '  time  elements.'  .  .  .  We 
keep  a  record  of  every  call.  They'll  take  a  dollar  a  week  less  in  an 
outside  place — for  instance,  a  hotel.  .  .  .  Their  average  stay  here 
is  thirty  months." 

And  I  was  told  the  number  of  exchanges  there  were  in  New  York, 
exactly  like  the  one  I  was  seeing. 

A  dollar  a  week  less  in  a  hotel!  How  feminine!  And  how 
masculine!  And  how  wise  for  one  sort  of  young  woman,  and  how 
foolish  for  another!  .  .  .  Imagine  quitting  that  convent  with  its 
guaranteed  fresh  air,  and  its  couches  and  sugar  and  so  on,  for  the 
rough  hazards  and  promiscuities  of  a  hotel!  On  the  other  hand, 
imagine  not  quitting  it! 

Said  the  demigod  of  the  electrical  world,  condescendingly:  "  All 
this  telephone  business  is  done  on  a  mere  few  hundred  horse-power. 
Come  away,  and  I'll  show  you  electricity  in  bulk." 

And  I  went  away  with  him,  thoughtful.  In  spite  of  the  inhuman 
perfection  of  its  functioning,  that  exchange  was  a  very  human  place 
indeed.  It  brilliantly  solved  some  problems;  it  raised  others.  Exces- 
sively difficult  to  find  any  fault  whatever  in  it!  A  marvelous  service, 
achieved  under  strictly  hygienic  conditions — and  young  women 
must  make  their  way  through  the  world!  And  yet — yes,  a  very 
human  place  indeed! 


THE  TELEPHONE  DIRECTORY 

BY  BERTON  BRALEY 

What  is  there  seeming  duller  than  this  book, 
This  stolid  volume  of  prosaic  print? 
And  yet  it  is  a  glass  through  which  we  look 
On  wonderland  and  marvels  without  stint. 
It  is  a  key  which  will  unlock  the  gate 
Of  distance  and  of  time  and  circumstance, 
A  wand  that  makes  the  wires  articulate 
With  hum  of  trade  and  whisper  of  romance! 

Somewhere  there  is  enchantment  in  each  page — 

The  whirr  of  wheels,  the  murmurs  of  the  mart, 

The  myriad  mighty  voices  of  the  age, 

The  throbbing  of  the  great  world's  restless  heart,— 

Such  are  the  sounds  this  volume  seems  to  store 

For  him  who  feels  the  magic  of  its  thrall, 

Who  views  the  vistas  it  unrolls  before 

His  eyes  that  scarce  can  comprehend  them  all! 

Here  is  the  guide  to  all  the  vast  extent 

The  wires  have  bound  together,  this  will  show 

The  way  to  help  when  need  is  imminent, 

When  terror  threatens  or  when  life  burns  low; 

This  brings  the  lover  to  his  heart's  desire, 

That  he  may  speak  to  her  o'er  hill  and  lea, 

This  is  the  secret  of  the  singing  wire, 

To  all  the  "  world  without  "  this  is  the  key! 

From  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World,  by  Berton  Braley.     Copyright, 
1915,  George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 
50 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS 

BY  WALTER  SANDERS  HIATT 

THE  youths  of  the  world  are  running  away  to  sea  again. 

But  yesterday  the  sea  had  lost  its  romance,  had  become  a  place 
of  prosaic  traveling  from  an  icy  port  to  a  hot  one,  with  the  tying 
up  at  the  coal-blackened  dock  the  most  fanciful  adventure  of  the 
voyage.  The  pirates,  alas!  had  gone  to  work.  There  was  naught 
left  of  the  wondrous  days  of  old  but  the  yarns  found  in  the  pages 
of  "  The  Pilot,"  "  Peter  Simple,"  "  Treasure  Island."  The  American 
lad  had  quit  the  sea  these  thirty  years.  It  had  hardly  kept  a  place 
in  his  dreams;  and  the  word  was  being  passed  that  the  white  lad 
the  world  around  was  forgetting  the  sea. 

Lo!  a  tiny  dot,  a  dash  or  two,  cuts  through  the  air,  over  the  sea, 
and  all  is  changed — once  more  as  it  should  be.  To  the  sea  was  thus 
reclaimed  enchanted,  wandering  fancy,  and  to-day  thousands  of 
American,  English,  German,  French,  and  Italian  youths  are  again 
treading  the  heaving  deck  on  the  high  sea. 

The  new  lad  aboard  ship  is  Sparks.  He  may  be  nineteen  and  lay 
claim  to  one-and-twenty ;  he  may  have  hoped  to  begin  life  as  an 
Indian-fighter. 

But  wireless  has  made  of  him  a  spanking  ship's  operator,  one 
who  dreams  of  ether  waves  and  transmitters,  condensers,  trans- 
formers, and  anchor  spark  gaps;  an  operator  who  can,  if  need  there 
be,  speak  a  language  for  any  tongue,  play  a  tune  on  his  antenna  that 
will  ride  out  the  most  terrible  of  gales,  bring  succor  to  the  weakest 
ship,  snatch  its  prey  from  the  wildest  sea. 

Sparks  is  not  tied  down  in  restive  captivity  to  one  port  or  ship. 
His  power  is  only  short  of  divine.  He  may  leap  over  the  sea  and 
the  mountains,  where  he  listeth.  If  there  are  no  messages  to  send  for 
captain  or  passenger,  if  the  steady  brightness  of  the  stars  blooming 
above  and  the  regular  roar  of  the  waves  broken  under  the  bow  make 
the  watch  to  drag,  he  may  call  up  a  friend  hundreds  of  miles  to  lee- 
ward, ask  the  latest  news  from  home,  make  plans  to  meet  at  port 

By  permission.  From  Scribner's  Magazine  for  April,  1914.  Copy- 
righted, 1914,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 

51 


52  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

six  months  hence  and  have  a  jolly  lark  ashore,  when  confidences  can 
be  exchanged  without  every  gossiper  afloat  and  every  amateur  on 
land  listening  in. 

A  fellow  doesn't  mind  telling  the  whole  world  about  the  perse- 
cutions of  the  skipper  and  the  bad  bunking  and  worse  food  on  board 
— but  there  are  some  things  to  be  kept  sacred.  Girls?  Of  course  not! 

If  perchance  Sparks  is  ploughing  Pacific  waters,  say  on  a  tramp 
bound  around  the  Horn,  laden  deep  with  grain  and  no  port  to 
make  in  the  ten  thousand  miles  this  side  of  Dunkirk,  he  may  break 
the  monotony  of  marmalade  and  toast,  scowling  skipper  and  raging 
waves,  by  calling  up  the  station  on  the  island  of  Juan  Fernandez, 
off  the  coast  of  Chile,  and  ask  after  Robinson  Crusoe's  goats,  his 
vine-clad  fort,  his  boats,  and  all  the  rest  so  plainly  set  down  on 
printed  page. 

Truly,  what  a  wonderful  life  leads  Sparks,  and  truly,  what  a 
wonderful  fellow  he  is! 

A  right  bold  sea-dog  is  Sparks  and  he  leads  the  captain  a  sad 
life.  Is  it  Sparks  or  is  it  the  captain  who  commands  the  ship? 

"  Why,  sir,  I'm  growing  old  before  my  time,  what  with  reports 
and  owner's  complaints,  cargo  that  shifts,  logs  that  read  awry," 
grumbled  one  Old  Man.  "  And  now  I  have  this  to  look  after.  A 
fellow  comes  aboard  my  ship  and  by  the  swagger  of  him  I'm  but 
an  air  wave." 

It  is  when  skippers  are  in  such  frame  of  mind  that  poor  Sparks 
learns  why  so  many  other  boys  quit  going  to  sea  in  the  good  old  days. 

Because  a  fellow  happens  to  be  in  a  hurry,  to  forget  that  the 
skipper  is  a  high  and  mighty  person,  and  asks  him  offhand,  "  I  say, 
captain,  da  you  want  to  send  out  any  dope  to-night?  "  that  is  no 
reason  to  set  you  to  pacing  the  deck  in  a  disgraceful  rope  ring  for  an 
hour,  with  an  added  quarter  each  time  you  touch  a  ventilator  or 
the  rail.  I  should  say  not! 

Then,  there  are  times  when  no  self-respecting  fellow  can  hold 
his  tongue.  Take  the  case  of  Cameron.  He  showed  the  Old  Man 
of  the  Iroquois  how  to  respect  a  Wireless  operator.  Cameron  is 
known  from  Point  Barrow  to  the  ice  barriers  of  the  Antarctic  as  a 
competent  operator.  The  night  he  left  that  old  tub  in  Seattle,  she 
had  taken  on  a  whole  deck-load  of  sheep.  Sheep  were  even  stowed 
about  the  Wireless  cabin.  There  was  a  holy  stench,  let  me  tell  you. 
Cameron  wasn't  to  blame. 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  S3 

So  he  up  and  tells  the  Old  Man  that  them  sheep  has  got  to 
come  from  around  his  cabin.  Did  not  his  contract  call  for  a  first-class 
berth?  Well,  the  Iroquois  was  just  about  to  cast  off  her  lines,  ready 
for  sea.  "  The  tide  is  making,  sir,"  the  first  was  bellowing  from  the 
fo'c's'le  head  when  Cameron  went  to  the  bridge. 

"  If  you're  not  suited  aboard  my  ship,  Mr.  Cameron,"  says  the 
Old  Man,  "  why,  you  can  take  your  things  and  go  ashore  and  con- 
found you!  "  But  he  was  that  put  out,  he  went  to  Cameron's  cabin 
and  helped  him  get  his  things  ashore.  He  afterward  bragged  he 
threw  Cameron,  "  his  umbrella,  his  valise,  coats,  pants,  and  collars, 
all  in  a  heap,  right  over  the  side  upon  the  dock."  Anyway,  it  was  not 
what  you  would  call  a  friendly  parting. 

"  You  lack  manners,  sir,"  shouted  Cameron  when  he  got  to  the 
dock.  Those  were  his  very  words.  My!  how  mad  they  made 
that  skipper! 

It  must  be  that  skippers  are  jealous.  When  they  are  about  to 
wreck  their  ships,  it  is  always  the  Wireless  men  that  save  them. 
Then  the  passengers  and  the  newspapers  tell  how  Sparks  acted  like 
a  hero.  That's  the  way  it  is. 

Take  the  eighty  passengers  of  the  Camino.  They  know  how  to 
appreciate  fellows  like  Cameron.  After  clearing  from  Portland,  ten 
miles  off  Astoria  she  ran  into  a  stiff  southerly  gale  which  was  soon 
banging  away  at  the  rate  of  eighty  miles  an  hour,  and  God  help  the 
vessel  in  its  path!  Waves  piled  up,  swept  the  battened  decks, 
wrecked  and  carried  away  the  winches  and  all  the  tackle  forward. 
The  passengers  gathered  in  the  saloon,  praying  and  weeping,  while 
the  storm  raged.  The  steady  plunging  forward  of  the  ship,  lifting 
her  heels  out  of  water,  kept  the  screw  spinning  in  vacant  air  so 
viciously  it  finally  broke  short  off  and  dropped  to  the  bottom. 

Then  the  despised  Sparks  was  told  to  call  for  help,  to  send  out 
the  S.O.S.  of  distress.  With  the  ship  drifting  and  the  waves  breaking 
over  broadside,  when  it  was  worth  your  life  to  go  on  deck,  Sparks 
repaired  his  disabled  antenna;  he  braved  each  bolt  of  lightning,  apt 
to  dart  down  his  wires  to  the  head-phones  and  strike  him*  senseless 
at  the  key. 

Finally,  forth  into  the  air  sputtered  the  call  that  brought  the 
Watson.  The  Camino  was  towed  into  San  Francisco  harbor,  with 
every  soul  safe  on  board.  You  bet  those  passengers  were  glad. 
They  voted  Sparks  the  ablest  seaman  of  the  lot  and  his  antenna 


54  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

wires,  stretched  from  masthead  to  masthead,  the  handsomest  part 
of  the  ship. 

It's  in  such  times  as  this  that  Sparks  loves  to  go  to  sea.  Even 
the  Old  Man  is  then  his  friend.  Though  the  brave  captain  may  he 
broken-hearted  at  the  thought  of  losing  his  commission  for  not 
having  done  more  than  human  could  do,  he  is  sure  to  speak  a  good 
word  for  Sparks  at  the  company  offices. 

The  running  away  of  Sparks  to  sea,  however,  is  not  done  to-day 
as  formerly.  If  bred  on  this  side  of  the  water,  he  cannot  jump  over 
the  back-yard  fence  and  make  for  the  nearest  ship.  He  must  quiet 
the  fever  in  his  veins,  still  the  quick  heart-beat  that  brings  the 
sparkle  to  the  eye  and  the  bloom  to  the  cheek,  until  he  has  passed 
certain  school  examinations.  But  such  a  school! 

The  uninitiated  peeping  in  would  mistake  the  scholars  for  appren- 
tice divers,  arrayed  as  they  are  with  helmet-like  head-pieces.  A 
glimpse  reveals  the  yearning  of  these  youth  to  become  operators. 
The  generators  and  dynamos,  booming  and  cracking  as  they  feed  the 
wires  with  the  electric  currents  that  pass  into  the  ether  as  pebbles  in 
a  pool,  would  alone  capture  the  youthful  imagination. 

Then,  there  are  other  bewildering  pieces  of  apparatus — telegraph- 
keys,  switches,  tuners,  automatic  message-stampers,  circuit  diagrams 
— on  the  walls  maps  of  the  world  splashed  with  red  dots  of  wireless 
stations,  charts  to  show  the  position  of  all  ships  at  sea. 

Since  the  passage  of  laws  by  nations  requiring  two  operators 
aboard  passenger-ships,  to  take  watch  and  watch  about,  a  dozen 
schools  have  been  established  to  train  operators.  These  schools  are 
in  Germany,  in  France,  in  England.  In  the  United  States  there 
are  no  less  than  half  a  dozen.  Some  of  these  schools  are  maintained 
by  the  commercial  companies  supplying  ships  with  equipment  and 
men.  The  United  States  Navy  maintains  one  at  Brooklyn,  another 
at  San  Francisco,  and  in  both  government  licenses  are  granted  to  any 
amateur  or  professional  operator,  after  a  rigid  examination. 

Wireless  is  a  veritable  disease  with  the  American  student.  Some 
of  them,  long  before  entering  these  schools,  work  at  all  sorts  of 
jobs,  whitewashing  neighbors'  fences,  carrying  coals,  running  errands, 
to  get  money  to  build  their  own  amateur  stations.  In  cities,  where 
landlords  are  captious  and  refuse  to  let  antenna  wires  mingle  with 
clothes-lines  on  the  roofs,  the  boys  not  infrequently  use  brass  bed- 
steads in  the  attics  as  antennae. 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  55 

So  going  to  a  wireless  school  is  dearer  than  play  to  them.  Mother 
may  have  intended  Sparks  for  a  minister,  father  for  a  drug  clerk, 
and  uncle  for  a  grocery  man;  but  no  bond  can  bind  such  a  heart's 
desire.  It  is  students  of  such  fervor  that  are  sought  to  enlist  in  the 
navy  or  sign  contracts  with  the  commercial  companies. 

At  the  school  there  is  constant  practice  in  distress  signalling. 
The  ship  in  distress  is  by  rule  entirely  in  charge  of  the  situation  and 
must  not  be  interfered  with,  not  spoken  to  unless  in  reply  to  mes- 
sages. Thus,  the  Sparks  in  distress  sends  out:  "  S.O.S.,  K.P.N.,"  the 
last  three  letters  being  his  ship  letter.  He  collects  his  answers,  selects 
the  ship  nearest,  tells  others  to  stand  by  and  others  to  proceed.  This 
team-work  is  exacting,  sometimes  exciting  to  distraction. 

One  day  a  new  Sparks  related  this  awful  tale  of  woe:  "  We  have 
sunk  by  the  head.  All  on  board  lost." 

"  Send  us  a  letter  about  it,  then,"  answered  a  facetious  operator. 

After  two  or  three  months  at  the  school,  attending  lectures  on 
electromagnetism,  wireless  engineering,  learning  the  Continental 
code,  the  repair  of  equipment  under  difficulties,  Sparks  goes  up  for 
his  license.  The  examination  is  in  deadly  earnest,  too.  He  must 
know  as  much  about  Wireless  as  captains  and  pilots  of  ship  naviga- 
tion. A  not  unimportant  requirement  of  the  license  is  secrecy  in 
respect  to  all  messages.  Once  the  license  is  granted,  if  he  elects  the 
merchant-ship  trade,  he  signs  on  with  a  commercial  company  at  a 
beginner's  salary  of  thirty  dollars  a  month  and  all  found. 

Then  it's  ho!  and  away  for  the  wide  ports  of  romance.  He  goes 
as  assistant  to  a  chief  Sparks,  to  be  sure,  but  he  goes.  He  explores 
all  the  mysteries  of  the  ship,  of  the  seas,  and  the  islands  and  lands 
bordering  thereupon.  The  sea  becomes  his  home,  with  the  land  as 
an  excuse  for  stopping  now  and  again.  He  learns  how  to  walk  with 
a  tremendous  roll,  to  speak  lightly  of  mountain  waves,  to  smoke 
black  cigars  of  Havana,  the  lighter  ones  of  Sumatra,  to  drink 
Madeira  wines,  to  eat  green  cocoanuts  and  bananas  and  yet  live;  he 
learns  to  forget,  too,  the  dusty  front  of  Marseilles,  the  lonely,  dreary 
weeks  around  the  Cape.  War,  famine,  luxury,  shipwreck,  are  all 
taken  in  good  part. 

There  was  the  investigating  Sparks  who  went  ashore  to  see  the 
sights  at  Tampico.  The  "  static  "  of  the  atmosphere  was  such  that 
he  could  not  talk  with  friends  at  sea,  the  ship  was  no  place  to  stop, 
what  with  the  heat,  the  mess  made  by  the  loading  of  sugar,  the  noise 


56  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

of  the  winches,  and  the  bustle  of  getting  her  ready  for  sea.  Going 
ashore,  Sparks  met  a  mate  who  told  him  he  should  ride  up-country 
to  visit  the  grave  of  a  dead  patriot  and  buried  hero. 

Sparks  went  to  a  livery  man.  Did  he  have  a  nice  mount?  Did 
he?  He  had  the  swiftest,  the  gentlest,  the  most  docile  donkey  ever 
bred  outside  of  Spain.  So  Sparks  mounted  and  plunged  inland, 
until  he  reached  the  graveside,  hidden  by  coarse  grass,  overrun  with 
ants  and  scorpions  and  beetles.  He  reverently  began  to  copy  the 
inscription  in  his  note-book:  "  Que  sea  su  juez  Dios"  (Let  God 
be  his  judge) . 

While  Sparks  was  stooping,  better  to  read  the  rest,  the  swiftest, 
gentlest  donkey,  possibly  being  of  a  different  political  faith  from  the 
patriot,  gayly  kicked  up  his  heels,  tossed  poor  Sparks  to  earth,  and 
bent  his  way  homeward.  Sparks,  failing  of  finding  another  mount, 
reached  the  city  next  morning,  footsore  and  worn,  to  find  that  his 
ship  had  sailed  without  him.  Did  he  rail  at  the  heartless  skipper? 
Not  he.  "  Let  God  be  his  judge,"  he  declared  sententiously  and  set 
about  seeking,  without  too  much  concern,  a  berth  on  a  ship  bound 
for  New  York,  there  to  report  for  another  ship  at  the  home  office. 

The  spirit  of  voyages  never-ending,  of  adventures  impossible, 
hovers  about  the  traffic-manager's  office,  whence  operators  meet  and 
are  assigned  to  ships. 

"  Hello!  Jenkins.  So  you're  the  man  I've  been  talking  to  these 
three  years  and  never  yet  set  eyes  upon.  That's  a  great  yarn  you 
told  me  down  in  the  Caribbean  about  the  Kingston  negro  who  got 
a  shock  walking  under  the  antenna  with  a  steel  cane.  .  .  ." 

"  Well!  well!  well!  And  this  is  the  sport  I  landed  in  the  busi- 
ness. I  hear  you  handed  it  to  the  Old  Man  when  he  asked  you  to 
call  up  the  Don  Juan  de  Austria  and  beg  the  loan  of  the  key  to  the 
keelson.  What  was  your  answer?  I  remember  now.  You  told  him 
you  were  busy  frying  flying-fish  on  your  antenna  for  supper,  and 
when  you  got  that  little  job  finished,  you  intended  to  find  out  what 
became  of  the  waste  ether  dots.  I  guess  he  found  you  weren't  so 
green,  at  that.  .  .  ." 

"  Boys!  look  at  the  bulletin-board!  l  The  next  operator  reported 
at  this  office  for  swearing  anywhere  within  three  hundred  miles  of 
the  port  of  New  York  will  be  severely  dealt  with.  All  improper 
conversation  among  operators  must  cease.*  Listen  to  this:  'Please 
note  that  the  s/s  Kiruna,  call  letters  S.F.N.,  of  the  Rederiaktiebolaget 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  57 

Lulea-Ofoten,  has  been  equipped  with  wireless  apparatus,  to  be 
operated  by  the  Societe  Anonyme  Internationale  de  Telegraphic  Sans 
Fil/  Here's  more  of  the  same:  '  Please  note  that  the  call  letter  of 
the  s/s  Bahia  Castillo  of  the  Hamburg  sud-Amerikanische  Damp- 
schiffahrts  Gesellschaft  is  D.B.K.'  They  hand  us  stuff  like  this  to 
remember  and  then  they  wonder  why  fellows  get  mad  and  let 
off  steam.  .  .  ." 

"  When  I  was  at  Calcutta,  I  did  a  good  turn  for  an  old  fakir  and 
he  took  a  shine  to  me.  He  said  he'd  let  me  know  when  he  died.  That 
was  three  years  ago  and,  will  you  believe  me,  this  voyage  home,  a 
thousand  miles  at  sea,  he  rung  a  bell — the  astral  bell! — right  in  my 
cabin,  and  told  me  he  was  dying.  He  knew  the  code  all  right.  .  .  . 
Well,  if  you  fellows  won't  believe  me.  .  .  .  It's  true.  No  ghost 
story  at  all.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  the  lad  at  Fame  Point  died.  They  said  he  had  heart  trouble. 
/  believe  it  was  pure  homesickness,  that's  what  I  believe.  .  .  ." 

"  He  was  always  a  queer  sort.  When  he  got  the  message  of  his 
mother's  death,  he  wrote  it  right  out  and  started  to  deliver  it  to  a 
passenger.  He  didn't  know  it  was  for  him,  couldn't  believe  it.  You 
see,  his  mother  had  just  been  planning  to  have  him  stop  ashore  at 
home  with  her  for  a  spell  around  Christmas-time.  He  had  not  been 
home  for  a  year  and  more.  .  .  ." 

While  the  chatter  is  running  along  in  this  wise,  a  lad  comes 
tramping  in,  the  fresh  mists  of  the  sea  still  clinging  about  his  face. 
His  ship,  the  Santa  Rosalia,  has  come  to  port,  via  Seattle,  the  Straits 
of  Magellan,  Buenos  Ayres,  Bordeaux,  and  Liverpool.  She  is  going 
into  dry  dock  for  two  or  three  weeks.  So  he  is  packed  off  to  take  a 
passenger-ship  to  Bermuda.  "  Glory  be!  "  he  shouts,  in  full  joy. 
This  is  the  first  time  he  has  had  a  passenger-ship  for  a  year.  He 
makes  for  his  cabin  on  the  freighter,  expresses  some  French  laces 
and  curio  to  mother  and  sister,  packs  up,  and  goes  to  his  new  ship — 
is  off  for  flirtations  on  the  sly,  to  answer  foolish  questions  in  pretty 
mouths  about  Wireless. 

A  strapping  man  comes  in  from  the  navy-yard.  He  is  almost 
nineteen,  has  just  passed  his  license  examination,  and  is  yearning 
for  a  ship.  He  can  speak  French,  so  he  is  assigned  to  the  Themis- 
tocles,  sailing  on  the  morrow  for  Grecian  ports,  to  carry  volunteers 
to  the  war.  He  rushes  home  to  pack. 

"  To  the  war,  mother!     Think  of  the  fun  I'll  have!  "     What 


58  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

mother  thinks  is  something  quite  different.  But  these  mothers  are 
brave.  She  slips,  unawares,  a  little  book  of  prayers  among  his 
things,  sees  that  he  has  plenty  of  clean  clothes,  kisses  her  boy,  and 
makes  him  promise  to  be  good.  "  And  do  write  me  often,  son,"  she 
begs  on  the  door-step.  What  letters  they  are  that  these  mothers 
get!  How  their  hearts  tremble  at  the  reading 

"  Well,  we  got  there  and  put  guns  on  our  ship  and  they  made  me 
a  naval  operator.  We  had  a  fight  and  they  run  us  ashore,  but  I  sent 
a  wireless  and  one  of  our  ships  came  and  chased  them  away.  An- 
other time  the  Turks  got  us  and  put  irons  on  me  and  I  thought  they 
were  going  to  shoot  us  but  they  didn't  because  we  got  exchanged 
and  now  I  am  back  on  another  ship.  So  everything  is  all  right.  You 
needn't  worry  about  me  though  I  do  wish  I  had  some  more 
clean  clothes.  .  .  ." 

It's  only  when  you  go  to  war  that  a  fellow  takes  a  chance.  Of 
course.  The  sea  is  safe  if  you  are  in  a  safe  ship.  All  the  Sparkses 
afloat  write  this  assurance  home  to  mother  from  every  port.  They 
leave  untold  the  stories  of  the  brawlers  who  lie  in  wait  at  dark 
corners,  in  the  foul  alley-ways,  who  strip  men  of  the  ship  and  throw 
their  bodies  into  the  quiet  river.  They  forget  about  the  collision,  the 
blow  amidships  some  foggy  night,  when  a  ship  goes  to  the  bottom 
like  a  rock. 

Take  the  case  of  the  steamer  Naming.  Sparks  had  to  leave 
mother  the  very  day  before  Christmas.  It  was  the  fault  of  the  Old 
Man,  who  hurried  the  longshoremen  in  loading  her.  But  he  got  paid 
back  for  it.  After  she  left  Tilbury  dock,  bound  for  the  Cape  and 
Australia,  she  had  head  winds  in  the  Channel  and  worse  ones  outside. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  the  green  seas  began  sweeping  the  ship  from 
stem  to  stern.  Twenty  miles  off  Ushant,  all  hands  thought  she 
would  founder,  surely. 

It  was  a  time  to  pick  your  own  burying-ground,  with  a  shroud 
of  brine.  Her  iron  decks  forward  ripped  up  and  crumpled  back 
before  the  force  of  those  waves  like  so  much  tinfoil.  Truly  an  honest 
man's  weather.  There  was  no  turning  her  about  in  the  teeth  of 
that  gale.  The  Old  Man  told  Sparks  to  send  out  his  S.O.S.  It  was 
freezing  cold,  so  cold  that  he  had  to  hold  one  hand  to  steady  the 
other.  The  ship  was  pitching  so  that  his  wave  metres  varied  every 
thirty  seconds.  But  he  got  his  auxiliary  set  working  and  shoved  out 
that  message  just  the  same.  The  Bavaria  and  the  Negada  answered 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  59 

and  this  gave  the  Old  Fussy  his  nerve  back.  He'd  rather  drown 
and  go  to  the  bottom  than  pay  salvage.  So  he  began  turning  that 
ship  about.  Before  that  gale  and  those  waves  breaking  over,  the 
Naming  reeled  so  the  lookout  came  just  short  of  dropping  from 
the  crow's-nest.  There  was  an  hour  and  twenty  minutes  of  this 
work  and  she  was  got  about  at  last.  She  proceeded  to  Graves- 
end  harbor. 

Sparks  had  been  on  duty  and  without  sleep  for  fifty  hours  or 
such  matter,  but  he  rolled  over  the  side  and  went  home  to  spend 
New  Year's  with  mother — which  was  almost  as  good  as  Christmas, 
being  unexpected.  He  told  mother  the  captain  caught  cold,  or  forgot 
his  watch,  or  gave  some  other  good  reason  for  putting  back.  Why 
worry  dear  mother? 

The  iron,  never-say-die  spirit  of  the  Seven  Seas  perforce  creeps 
into  the  blood  of  Sparks.  It  is  a  world  of  give  and  take,  oftener 
taking  than  giving,  and  one  must  learn  its  ways.  Thus,  when  the 
operators  on  Sable  Island  saw  the  fine  ship  Eric  cast  ashore  by  a 
wild  March  tempest,  one  of  their  number  beat  through  the  breakers 
aboard  of  her  with  a  small  wireless  outfit — she  having  none — to  trans- 
mit the  messages  that  might  yet  save  her. 

He  braved  the  waves  breaking  over  her,  worked  like  a  fury, 
clambered  to  the  masts,  strung  his  antenna,  and  began  sending  the 
messages  to  the  Aberdeen,  the  Bridgwater,  and  the  Seal,  which  came 
and  stood  by,  waiting  a  chance  to  salvage  the  ship,  or  at  least  save 
her  three  thousand  nine  hundred  tons  of  pretty  Argentine  maize. 
A  night  and  a  day  this  Sparks  worked,  until  the  pounding  broke  the 
Eric  in  twain  and  he  had  to  make  a  rare  race  back  to  shore. 

Upon  the  straightaway  dangers  of  the  sea  are  often  piled  the 
devious  ones  of  man.  Sparks  may  be  set  aboard  a  ship  to  help  save 
her,  in  time  of  distress,  because,  being  old  and  leaky  and  unsea- 
worthy,  with  a  weak  hull  or  a  too  heavy  engine  in  her,  her  owners  are 
ashamed  to  even  ask  for  insurance.  Such  vessels  are  often  used  in 
trading  about  which  no  questions  should,  in  all  fairness,  be  asked. 
It  may  be  to  the  slave  coasts  or  again  in  sly  filibustering  expeditions, 
when  arms  are  needed  by  one  band  of  patriots  to  quell  the  ardor  of 
another  such  band.  In  this  latter  fall,  Sparks  is  useful  in  transmitting 
code  messages  to  a  friendly  Sparks  ashore. 

A  certain  Sparks  wears  a  sparkling  diamond  as  a  souvenir  of  a 
certain  voyage  in  a  certain  wooden  tub,  full  of  leaks  and  daylight. 


60  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

She  left  New  York  to  carry  vegetables  to  the  starving  city  of  Bruns- 
wick, Ga.  The  vegetables  were  done  up  in  coffin-like  cases,  safely 
stowed  away  in  the  hold  from  the  observation  of  a  Spanish  crew 
that  came  aboard  at  the  hour  of  sailing.  It  was  a  long  voyage  down 
the  coast  and  so  confusing  that  the  captain  brought  up  in  the 
islands  near  Progresso. 

Sparks  was  awakened  from  the  fitful  slumber  of  a  seething 
tropic  night  and  asked  to  get  in  touch  with  the  Sparks  ashore.  This 
he  did.  At  dawn  a  swarthy  band  of  little  soldiers  and  politicians 
swarmed  aboard.  Some  of  them  came  and  smoked  cigarettes  with 
Sparks  and  examined  "  this  thing  wire."  El  general  bustled  into  the 
wireless  cabin,  while  hatches  were  being  broken  open  below  and 
arms  distributed.  He  wanted  a  message  sent.  The  fate  of  a  nation 
hung  by  it.  Sparks  could  not  get  his  instrument  to  work. 

El  general  danced  up  and  down.  "  Carrambos!  Thees  message, 
it  is  expect!  "  Sparks  located  the  trouble.  The  tiny  carbon  silicon 
detector  had  been  broken  by  the  curious  visitors.  As  he  started  to 
explain  this  to  el  general,  he  noted  that  the  little  brown  man  wore 
a  huge  flat  diamond  in  his  cravat.  Sparks  demanded  it.  The  dia- 
mond was  carbon,  too.  El  general  gave  up  the  diamond  and  Sparks 
was  able  to  send  and  receive  in  good  order.  "  You  one  great  mans! 
I  you  have  saved!  "  cried  the  general.  Sparks  also  saved  the  dia- 
mond. Later  he  asked  the  operator  on  shore  when  the  general  would 
return  for  his  jewelry.  "  Keep  it,"  was  the  answer.  "  His  soul  is 
at  rest.  He  will  never  claim  it." 

The  other  Sparkses  wink  slyly  when  this  yarn  is  told.  Can  it 
be  possible  that  the  ancient  and  honorable  fibbing  habit  of  Jack  Tar 
is  inevitably  connected  with  the  sea? 

Odd  are  the  tales  cast  up  by  the  ether  sea.  A  laborer  on  Swan 
Island  in  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  one  of  the  banana  chain  to  the  tropics, 
had  his  foot  crushed  in  a  tram-car  accident.  A  surgical  operation 
.was  necessary,  but  surgeon  there  was  none.  The  Sparks  of  the 
island  wireless  station  had  an  idea.  He  sent  out  a  distress  call,  far 
and  wide,  which  was  answered  by  the  Ward  Line  steamer  Esperanza, 
four  hundred  and  twenty  miles  away. 

He  explained  his  case.  Could  the  ship's  doctor  help!  The 
captain  and  the  ship's  doctor  held  a  consultation.  It  would  be  a 
pity  for  the  ship  to  turn  from  her  course  and  lose  thousands  of 
dollars  by  the  delay.  The  losing  of  a  man's  life  would  also  be  a 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  61 

pity.  "  Let  me  handle  the  case  by  wireless,"  volunteered  the  doctor. 
So  he  sat  himself  down  in  the  wireless  cabin  and  sent  a  call  for  all 
details  of  the  case.  Then,  message  by  message,  he  directed  the  way 
to  deaden  the  pain,  the  amputation  of  the  foot,  each  stroke  of  the 
knife,  the  binding  of  the  arteries  to  prevent  loss  of  blood,  the  wash- 
ing of  the  wound  with  antiseptics.  When  the  operation  was  over, 
he  kept  in  touch,  by  wireless  relay  from  ship  to  ship,  with  his  patient 
until  danger  of  blood-poisoning  was  by. 

The  Crusoe-like  life  of  Sparks  ashore  in  these  out-of-the-way 
corners  of  the  world  lacks  the  changing  joys  and  vicissitudes  of 
Ralph  Rover  afloat.  A  daily  diet  of  flaming  sunsets  and  sunrises, 
of  blue  seas  and  resplendent  luxuriance  of  vegetation,  has  not  the 
compensations  of  even  famine  and  shipwreck.  In  the  sombre  north- 
ern stations  the  life  of  Sparks  is  dreary  to  a  detail.  Sometimes  rest- 
lessness gets  a  strangle-hold. 

It  was  under  such  urgence  that  a  message  of  distress  was  sent  out 
by  a  Sparks  from  the  station  at  Estevan  Point,  British  Columbia.  To 
a  vessel  answering,  he  stated  that  his  wife  and  children  were  down 
with  the  fever  and  that  he  needed  quinine.  When  the  vessel  came  off 
shore  and  sent  out  a  boat,  Sparks  kept  the  crew  overtime — just  talk- 
ing. As  he  could  not  produce  the  sick  family,  the  wrothy  captain 
reported  the  matter  and  Sparks  lost  his  job.  But  what  cared  he? 
A  wanderer  born,  he  wandered  to  the  Fiji  Island  station,  then  to 
New  Zealand,  and  finally  back  to  the  Pacific  coast. 

The  operator  at  Katella,  Fox  Island,  Alaska,  it  is  related,  rather 
than  face  a  winter  alone,  contrived  to  keep  sixty  men  marooned  on 
the  island  for  a  spell.  The  men  were  there  working  for  a  contem- 
plated railroad  when  the  winter  fell  too  soon,  so  they  could  not  leave 
overland.  Sparks  was  glad  of  their  company,  so  glad  that  he  did 
not  send  out  a  distress  message  to  bring  help  for  them  until  famine 
threatened  the  party.  His  reluctant  S.O.S.  brought  the  old 
steamer  Portland. 

Then  Sparks  wrote  in  his  log,  "  Left  alone  for  the  winter,"  an  act 
which  required  as  much  grim  courage  as  that  of  the  captain  who  seals 
his  log  with  the  loss  of  his  ship  as  the  last  entry. 

Sparks  meets  with  real  adventures  now  and  then,  just  like  those 
of  the  fellows  on  a  lively  shore,  in  this  wandering  about  the  world: 
adventures  of  the  heart,  adventures  that  lead  somewhere,  that  are 
not  at  once  swallowed  up  in  unfathomable  air  or  trackless  waste  of 


62  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

water.  If  you  are  the  Sparks  of  a  tramp  ship,  you  visit  Oporto, 
Barcelona,  Palermo,  Antwerp,  Callao,  Montreal,  Galveston — all  the 
queer  names  in  the  geography  are  down  as  your  ports  of  call. 

Always  curious  maidens  of  wondrous  beauty  come  aboard  to  see 
the  wireless  wonder.  You  let  one  such  put  on  your  ear-phones,  you 
guide  her  hand  at  the  sending  key.  How  good  and  sweet  she  seems, 
how  her  presence  adorns  and  purifies  that  staid,  dingy  old  craft! 
You  are  invited  ashore  to  church,  to  dinner.  There  are  songs  at  the 
piano,  the  air  is  all  sentiment.  She  seems  yet  more  good  and  sweet. 
You  tell  her  so — and  there  you  are! 

Such  matters  fall  out  even  more  frequently  at  sea  aboard  the 
passenger-ships.  Mothers  and  giggling  daughters  come  trooping 
merrily  along  the  boat-deck,  or  the  wider,  roomier  sun-deck.  "  Ohl 
here's  the  wireless  room.  Simply  wonderful,  isn't  it?  May  we 
come  in?  Thanks.  What  a  lot  of  wire  you  need  to  send  a  wire- 
less message!  How  far  are  we  from  land?  Two  miles  straight 
down — isn't  that  a  good  joke!  So  that  line  aft  really  doesn't  steady 
the  ship?  How  curious!  Just  a  fishing-line,  and  the  fish  are  not 
biting  to-day,  because  it's  Friday." 

While  they  race  along  in  this  vein,  you  note  the  quiet,  brown- 
eyed  one  by  the  door  who  doesn't  ask  a  single  question.  She's  the 
kind  of  a  girl  that  makes  your  heart  jump.  When  the  others  leave, 
you  manage  to  ask  her  if  she  really  would  not  like  to  stay  and  watch 
the  wireless  work.  You  exchange  names,  you  write  each  other  after 
the  voyage  is  over.  Finally,  you  decide  to  give  up  this  wandering 
over  the  seas  like  a  sodden  derelict.  You  get  a  job  ashore  and  settle 
down  and  live  like  other  fellows. 

Sometimes  Sparks  quits  going  to  sea  for  another  reason  yet. 
These  commonplace  happenings  at  sea,  called  adventures  by  lands- 
men, take  a  more  serious  turn  at  times,  have  an  import  altogether 
uncalculated.  A  ship  grounds  in  a  thick  fog  on  some  desolate  rock, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  Ohio  in  Finlayson  Channel. 

You  keep  the  antenna  cracking  out  your  S.O.S.  till  the  deck  is 
awash,  till  help  comes.  Then,  in  the  confusion  of  oaths  and  cries, 
of  rushing  to  and  fro,  of  frantic,  animal-like  struggles  for  safety,  as 
you  are  about  to  take  the  last  boat,  you  see  a  helpless  mother  or  a 
dazed  man. 

You  stay  to  lend  a  hand,  there  is  a  slight,  staggering,  pitching 


SPARKS  OF  THE  WIRELESS  63 

motion  of  a  ship  in  her  last  agonies;  waves  leap  and  dance  about 
you;  then  a  dull,  sucking  roar.  .  .  . 

Later  mother  and  sweetheart  come  to  bury  you,  so  they  say — as 
Eccles  of  the  Ohio  at  Altamonte,  or  Phillips  of  the  Titanic  at  Godal- 
ming — where  the  water  flows  and  the  grass  is  green;  perchance  a 
fountained  monument  is  raised  in  some  Battery  Park  to  your 
undying  fame. 

You  are  then  gone — as  say  mother  and  sweetheart — free  to  wan- 
der at  large,  further,  in  the  more  mysterious  ports  of  the  ether  ocean. 


FANNY  HERSELF 
BY  EDNA  FERBER 

"  MR.  FENCER  will  see  you  now."  Mr.  Fenger,  general  manager, 
had  been  a  long  time  about  it.  This  heel-cooling  experience  was 
new  to  Fanny  Brandeis.  It  had  always  been  her  privilege  to  keep 
others  waiting.  Still,  she  felt  no  resentment  as  she  sat  in  Michael 
Fenger's  outer  office.  For  as  she  sat  there,  waiting,  she  was  getting 
a  distinct  impression  of  this  unseen  man  whose  voice  she  could  just 
hear  as  he  talked  over  the  telephone  in  his  inner  office.  It  was 
characteristic  of  Michael  Fenger  that  his  personality  reached  out 
and  touched  you  before  you  came  into  actual  contact  with  the  man. 
Fanny  had  heard  of  him  long  before  she  came  to  Haynes-Cooper. 
He  was  the  genie  of  that  glittering  lamp.  All  through  the  gigantic 
plant  (she  had  already  met  department  heads,  buyers,  merchandise 
managers)  one  heard  his  name,  and  felt  the  impress  of  his  mind: 

"  You'll  have  to  see  Mr.  Fenger  about  that." 

"  Yes," — pointing  to  a  new  conveyor,  perhaps, — "  that  has  just 
been  installed.  It's  a  great  help  to  us.  Doubles  our  shipping-room 
efficiency.  We  used  to  use  baskets,  pulled  by  a  rope.  It's  Mr. 
Fenger's  idea." 

Efficiency,  efficiency,  efficiency.  Fenger  had  made  it  a  slogan 
in  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant  long  before  the  German  nation  forced 
it  into  our  everyday  vocabulary.  Michael  Fenger  was  System.  He 
could  take  a  muddle  of  orders,  a  jungle  of  unfilled  contracts,  a  horde 
of  incompetent  workers,  and  of  them  make  a  smooth-running  and 
effective  unit.  Untangling  snarls  was  his  pastime.  Esprit  de  corps 
was  his  shibboleth.  Order  and  management  his  idols.  And  his 
war-cry  was  "  Results!  " 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  Fanny  came  into  his  outer  office. 
The  very  atmosphere  was  vibrant  with  his  personality.  There  hung 
about  the  place  an  air  of  repressed  expectancy.  The  room  was 
electrically  charged  with  the  high-voltage  of  the  man  in  the  inner 
office.  His  secretary  was  a  spare,  middle-aged,  anxious-looking 
woman  in  snuff-brown  and  spectacles;  his  stenographer  a  blond 
young  man,  also  spectacled  and  anxious;  his  office  boy  a  stern  youth 
64 


FANNY  HERSELF  65 

in  knickers,  who  bore  no  relation  to  the  slangy,  gum-chewing,  red- 
headed office  boy  of  the  comic  sections. 

The  low-pitched,  high-powered  voice  went  on  inside,  talking  over 
the  long-distance  telephone.  Fenger  was  the  kind  of  man  who  is 
always  talking  to  New  York  when  he  is  in  Chicago,  and  to  Chicago 
when  he  is  in  New  York.  Trains  with  the  word  Limited  after  them 
were  invented  for  him  and  his  type.  A  buzzer  sounded.  It  gal- 
vanized the  office  boy  into  instant  action.  It  brought  the  anxious- 
looking  stenographer  to  the  doorway,  note-book  in  hand,  ready.  It 
sent  the  lean  secretary  out,  and  up  to  Fanny. 

"  Temper,"  said  Fanny,  to  herself,  "  or  horribly  nervous  and 
high-keyed.  They  jumped  like  a  set  of  puppets  on  a  string." 

It  was  then  that  the  lean  secretary  had  said,  "  Mr.  Fenger  will 
see  you  now." 

Fanny  was  aware  of  a  pleasant  little  tingle  of  excitement.  She 
entered  the  inner  office. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Michael  Fenger  that  he  employed  no 
cheap  tricks.  He  was  not  writing  as  Fanny  Brandeis  came  in.  He 
was  not  telephoning.  He  was  not  doing  anything  but  standing  at 
his  desk,  waiting  for  Fanny  Brandeis.  As  she  came  in  he  looked 
at  her,  through  her,  and  she  seemed  to  feel  her  mental  processes  laid 
open  to  him  as  a  skilled  surgeon  cuts  through  skin  and  flesh  and 
fat,  to  lay  bare  the  muscles  and  nerves  and  vital  organs  beneath. 
He  put  out  his  hand.  Fanny  extended  hers.  They  met  in  a  silent 
grip.  It  was  like  a  meeting  between  two  men.  Even  as  he  indexed 
her,  Fanny's  alert  mind  was  busy  docketing,  numbering,  cataloguing 
him.  They  had  in  common  a  certain  force,  a  driving  power.  Fanny 
seated  herself  opposite  him,  in  obedience  to  a  gesture.  He  crossed 
his  legs  comfortably  and  sat  back  in  his  big  desk  chair.  A  great- 
bodied  man,  with  powerful  square  shoulders,  a  long  head,  a  rugged 
crest  of  a  nose — the  kind  you  see  on  the  type  of  Englishman  who  has 
the  imagination  and  initiative  to  go  to  Canada,  or  Australia,  or 
America.  He  wore  spectacles,  not  the  fashionable  horn-rimmed  sort, 
but  the  kind  with  gold  ear-pieces.  They  were  becoming,  and  gave 
a  certain  humanness  to  a  face  that  otherwise  would  have  been  too 
rugged,  too  strong.  A  man  of  forty-five,  perhaps. 

He  spoke  first.    "  You're  younger  than  I  thought." 

"  So  are  you." 

"  Old  inside." 
5 


66  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  So  am  I." 

He  uncrossed  his  legs,  leaned  forward,  folded  his  arms  on  the  desk. 

"  You've  been  through  the  plant,  Miss  Brandeis?  " 

"  Yes.  Twice.  Once  with  a  regular  tourist  party.  And  once 
with  the  special  guide." 

"  Good.  Go  through  the  plant  whenever  you  can.  Don't  stick 
to  your  own  department.  It  narrows  one."  He  paused  a  moment. 
"  Did  you  think  that  this  opportunity  to  come  to  Haynes-Cooper,  as 
assistant  to  the  infants'  wear  department  buyer,  was  just  a  piece 
of  luck,  augmented  by  a  little  pulling  on  your  part?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  It  wasn't.  You  were  carefully  picked  by  me,  and  I  don't  expect 
to  find  I've  made  a  mistake.  I  suppose  you  know  very  little  about 
buying  and  selling  infants'  wear?  " 

"  Less  than  about  almost  any  other  article  in  the  world — at  least, 
in  the  department  store,  or  mail-order  world." 

"  I  thought  so.  And  it  doesn't  matter.  I  pretty  well  know  your 
history,  which  means  that  I  know  your  training.  You're  young; 
you're  ambitious;  you're  experienced;  you're  imaginative.  There's 
no  length  you  can't  go,  with  these.  It  just  depends  on  how  far- 
sighted  your  mental  vision  is.  Now  listen,  Miss  Brandeis:  I'm  not 
going  to  talk  to  you  in  millions.  The  guides  do  enough  of  that. 
But  you  know  we  do  buy  and  sell  in  terms  of  millions,  don't  you? 
Well,  our  infants'  wear  department  isn't  helping  to  roll  up  the  mil- 
lions; and  it  ought  to,  because  there  are  millions  of  babies  born 
every  year,  and  the  golden-spoon  kind  are  in  the  minority.  I've 
decided  that  the  department  needs  a  woman,  your  kind  of  a  woman. 
Now,  as  a  rule,  I  never  employ  a  woman  when  I  can,  use  a  man. 
There's  only  one  other  woman  filling  a  really  important  position  in 
the  merchandise  end  of  this  business.  That's  Ella  Monahan,  head 
of  the  glove  department,  and  she's  a  genius.  She  is  a  woman  who 
is  limited  in  every  other  respect — just  average;  but  she  knows  glove 
materials  in  a  way  that's  uncanny.  I'd  rather  have  a  man  in  her 
place;  but  I  don't  happen  to  know  any  men  glove-geniuses.  Tell 
me,  what  do  you  think  of  that  etching?  " 

Fanny  tried — and  successfully — not  to  show  the  jolt  her  mind 
had  received  as  she  turned  to  look  at  the  picture  to  which  his  finger 
pointed.  She  got  up  and  strolled  over  to  it,  and  she  was  glad  her 
suit  fitted  and  hung  as  it  did  in  the  back. 


FANNY  HERSELF  67 

"  I  don't  like  it  particularly.  I  like  it  less  than  any  other  etching 
you  have  here."  The  walls  were  hung  with  them.  "  Of  course,  you 
understand  I  know  nothing  about  them.  But  it's  too  flowery,  isn't 
it,  to  be  good?  Too  many  lines.  Like  a  writer  who  spoils  his  effect 
by  using  too  many  words." 

Fenger  came  over  and  stood  beside  her,  staring  at  the  black  and 
white  and  gray  thing  in  its  frame.  "  I  felt  that  way,  too."  He 
stared  down  at  her,  then.  "  Jew?  "  he  asked. 

A  breathless  instant.    "  No,"  said  Fanny  Brandeis. 

Michael  Fenger  smiled  for  the  first  time.  Fanny  Brandeis  would 
have  given  everything  she  had,  everything  she  hoped  to  be,  to  be 
able  to  take  back  that  monosyllable.  She  was  gripped  with  horror 
at  what  she  had  done.  She  had  spoken  almost  mechanically.  And 
yet  that  monosyllable  must  have  been  the  fruit  of  all  these  months 
of  inward  struggle  and  thought.  "  Now  I  begin  to  understand 
you,"  Fenger  went  on.  "  You've  decided  to  lop  off  all  the  excres- 
cences, eh?  Well,  I  can't  say  that  I  blame  you.  A  woman  in  busi- 
ness is  handicapped  enough  by  the  very  fact  of  her  sex."  He  stared 
at  her  again.  "  Too  bad  you're  so  pretty." 

"  I'm  not!  "  said  Fanny  hotly,  like  a  school-girl. 

"  That's  a  thing  that  can't  be  argued,  child.  Beauty's  sub- 
jective, you  know." 

"  I  don't  see  what  difference  it  makes,  anyway." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  do."  He  stopped.  "  Or  perhaps  you  don't,  after 
all.  I  forget  how  young  you  are.  Well,  now,  Miss  Brandeis,  you 
and  your  woman's  mind,  and  your  masculine  business  experience 
and  sense  are  to  be  turned  loose  on  our  infants'  wear  department. 
The  buyer,  Mr.  Slosson,  is  going  to  resent  you.  Naturally.  I  don't 
know  whether  we'll  get  results  from  you  in  a  month,  or  six  months 
or  a  year.  Or  ever.  But  something  tells  me  we're  going  to  get  them. 
You've  lived  in  a  small  town  most  of  your  life.  And  we  want  that 
small-town  viewpoint.  D'you  think  you've  got  it?  " 

Fanny  was  on  her  own  ground  here.  "  If  knowing  the  Wisconsin 
small-town  woman,  and  the  Wisconsin  fanner  woman — and  man,  too, 
for  that  matter — means  knowing  the  Oregon,  and  Wyoming,  and 
Pennsylvania,  and  Iowa  people  of  the  same  place,  then  I've  got  it." 

"Good!  "  Michael  Fenger  stood  up.  "I'm  not  going  to  load 
you  down  with  instructions,  or  advice.  I  think  111  let  you  grope 
your  own  way  around,  and  bump  your  head  a  few  times.  Then 


68  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

you'll  learn  where  the  low  places  are.  And,  Miss  Brandeis,  remem- 
ber that  suggestions  are  welcome  in  this  plant.  We  take  suggestions 
all  the  way  from  the  elevator  starter  to  the  president."  His  tone 
was  kindly,  but  not  hopeful. 

Fanny  was  standing,  too,  her  mental  eye  on  the  door.  But  now 
she  turned  to  face  him  squarely. 

"  Do  you  mean  that?  " 

"  Absolutely." 

"  Well,  then,  Fve  one  to  make.  Your  stock  boys  and  stock  girls 
walk  miles  and  miles  every  day,  on  every  floor  of  this  fifteen-story 
building.  I  watched  them  yesterday,  filling  up  the  bins,  carrying 
orders,  covering  those  enormous  distances  from  one  bin  to  another, 
up  one  aisle  and  down  the  next,  to  the  office,  back  again.  Your 
floors  are  concrete,  or  cement,  or  some  such  mixture,  aren't  they? 
I  just  happened  to  think  of  the  boy  who  used  to  deliver  our  paper  on 
Norris  Street,  in  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.  He  covered  his  route  on 
roller  skates.  It  saved  him  an  hour.  Why  don't  you  put  roller 
skates  on  your  stock  boys  and  girls?  " 

Fenger  stared  at  her.  You  could  almost  hear  that  mind  of 
his  working,  like  a  thing  on  ball  bearings.  "  Roller  skates."  It 
wasn't  an  exclamation.  It  was  a  decision.  He  pressed  a  buzzer — 
the  snuff-brown  secretary  buzzer.  "  Tell  Clancy  I  want  him.  Now." 
He  had  not  glanced  up,  or  taken  his  eyes  from  Fanny.  She  was 
aware  of  feeling  a  little  uncomfortable,  but  elated,  too.  She  moved 
toward  the  door.  Fenger  stood  at  his  desk.  "  Wait  a  minute." 
Fanny  waited.  Still  Fenger  did  not  speak.  Finally,  "  I  suppose  you 
know  you've  earned  six  months'  salary  in  the  last  five  minutes." 

Fanny  eyed  him  coolly.  "  Considering  the  number  of  your  stock 
force,  the  time,  energy,  and  labor  saved,  including  wear  and  tear 
on  department  heads  and  their  assistants,  I  should  say  that  was  a 
conservative  statement."  And  she  nodded  pleasantly,  and  left  him. 

Two  days  later  every  stock  clerk  in  the  vast  plant  was  equipped 
with  light-weight  roller  skates.  They  made  a  sort  of  carnival  of  it 
at  first.  There  were  some  spills,  too,  going  around,  corners,  and  a 
little  too  much  hilarity.  That  wore  off  in  a  week.  In  two  weeks  their 
roller  skates  were  part  of  them;  just  shop  labor-savers.  The  report 
presented  to  Fenger  was  this:  Time  and  energy  saved,  fifty-five  per 
cent.;  stock  staff  decreased  by  one-third.  The  picturesqueness  of 
it,  the  almost  ludicrous  simplicity  of  the  idea  appealed  to  the  entire 


FANNY  HERSELF  69 

plant.  It  tickled  the  human  sense  in  every  one  of  the  ten  thousand 
employees  in  that  vast  organization.  In  the  first  week  of  her  asso- 
ciation with  Haynes-Cooper  Fanny  Brandeis  was  actually  more 
widely  known  than  men  who  had  worked  there  for  years.  The 
president,  Nathan  Haynes  himself,  sent  for  her,  chuckling. 

Nathan  Haynes — but,  then,  why  stop  for  him?  Nathan  Haynes 
had  been  swallowed,  long  ago,  by  this  monster  plant  that  he  himself 
had  innocently  created.  You  must  have  visited  it,  this  Gargantuan 
thing  that  sprawls  its  length  in  the  very  center  of  Chicago,  the  giant 
son  of  a  surprised  father.  It  is  one  of  the  city's  show  places,  like 
the  stockyards,  the  Art  Institute,  and  Field's.  Fifteen  years  before,  a 
building  had  been  erected  to  accommodate  a  prosperous  mail-order 
business.  It  had  been  built  large  and  roomy,  with  plenty  of  seams, 
planned  amply,  it  was  thought,  to  allow  the  boy  to  grow.  It  would 
do  for  twenty-five  years,  surely.  In  ten  years  Haynes-Cooper  was 
bursting  its  seams.  In  twelve  it  was  shamelessly  naked,  its  arms  and 
legs  sticking  out  of  its  inadequate  garments.  New  red  brick  buildings 
— another — another.  Five  stories  added  to  this  one,  six  stories  to 
that,  a  new  fifteen-story  merchandise  building. 

The  firm  began  to  talk  in  tens  of  millions.  Its  stock  became  gilt- 
edged,  unattainable.  Lucky  ones  who  had  bought  of  it  diffidently, 
discreetly,  with  modest  visions  of  four  and  a  half  per  cent,  in  their 
unimaginative  minds,  saw  their  dividends  doubling,  trebling,  quad- 
rupling, finally  soaring  gymnastically  beyond  all  reason.  Listen  to 
the  old  guide  who  (at  fifteen  a  week)  takes  groups  of  awed  visitors 
through  the  great  plant.  How  he  juggles  figures;  how  grandly  they 
roll  off  his  tongue.  How  glib  he  is  with  Nathan  Haynes's  millions. 

"  This,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  our  mail  department.  From  two 
thousand  to  twenty-five  hundred  pounds  of  mail,  comprising  over 
one  hundred  thousand  letters,  are  received  here  every  day.  Yes, 
madam,  I  said  every  day.  About  half  of  these  letters  are  orders. 
Last  year  the  banking  department  counted  one  hundred  and  thirty 
millions  of  dollars.  One  hundred  and  thirty  millions!  "  He  stands 
there  in  his  ill-fitting  coat,  and  his  star,  and  rubs  one  bony  hand 
over  the  other. 

"  Dear  me!  "  says  a  lady  tourist  from  Idaho,  rather  inadequately. 
And  yet,  not  so  inadequately.  What  exclamation  is  there,  please, 
that  fits  a  sum  like  one  hundred  and  thirty  millions  of  anything? 

Fanny  Brandeis,  fresh  from  Winnebago,  Wisconsin,  slipped  into 


70         THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  great  scheme  of  things  at  the  Haynes-Cooper  plant  like  part 
of  a  perfectly  planned  blue-print.  It  was  as  though  she  had  been 
thought  out  and  shaped  for  this  particular  corner.  And  the  reason 
for  it  was,  primarily,  Winnebago,  Wisconsin.  For  Haynes-Cooper 
grew  and  thrived  on  just  such  towns,  with  their  surrounding  farms 
and  villages.  Haynes-Cooper  had  their  fingers  on  the  pulse  and  heart 
of  the  country  as  did  no  other  industry.  They  were  close,  close. 
When  rugs  began  to  take  the  place  of  ingrain  carpets  it  was  Haynes- 
Cooper  who  first  sensed  the  change.  Oh,  they  had  had  them  in 
New  York  years  before,  certainly.  But  after  all,  it  isn't  New  York's 
artistic  progress  that  shows  the  development  of  this  nation.  It  is 
the  thing  they  are  thinking,  and  doing,  and  learning  in  Backwash, 
Nebraska,  that  marks  time  for  these  United  States.  There  may  be 
a  certain  significance  in  the  announcement  that  New  York  has 
dropped  the  Russian  craze  and  has  gone  in  for  that  quaint 
Chinese  stuff.  My  dear,  it  makes  the  loveliest  hangings  and  decora- 
tions. When  Fifth  Avenue  takes  down  its  filet  lace  and  eyelet 
embroidered  curtains,  and  substitutes  severe  shantung  and  chaste  net, 
there  is  little  in  the  act  to  revolutionize  industry,  or  stir  the  art- 
world.  But  when  the  Haynes-Cooper  company,  by  referring  to  its 
inventory  ledgers,  learns  that  it  is  selling  more  Alma  Gluck  than 
Harry  Lauder  records;  when  its  statistics  show  that  Tchaikowsky  is 
going  better  than  Irving  Berlin,  something  epochal  is  happening  in 
the  musical  progress  of  a  nation.  And  when  the  orders  from  Noose 
Gulch,  Nevada,  are  for  those  plain  dimity  curtains  instead  of  the 
cheap  and  gaudy  Nottingham  atrocities,  there  is  conveyed  to  the  mind 
a  fact  of  immense,  of  overwhelming  significance.  The  country  has 
taken  a  step  toward  civilization  and  good  taste. 

So.  You  have  a  skeleton  sketch  of  Haynes-Cooper,  whose  feelers 
reach  the  remotest  dugout  in  the  Yukon,  the  most  isolated  cabin  in 
the  Rockies,  the  loneliest  ranch-house  in  Wyoming;  the  Montana 
mining  shack,  the  bleak  Maine  farm,  the  plantation  in  Virginia. 

And  the  man  who  had  so  innocently  put  life  into  this  monster? 
A  plumpish,  kindly-faced  man;  a  bewildered,  gentle,  unimaginative 
and  somewhat  frightened  man,  fresh-cheeked,  eye-glassed.  In  his 
suite  of  offices  in  the  new  Administration  Building — built  two  years 
ago — marble  and  oak  throughout — twelve  stories,  and  we're  adding 
three  already;  offices  all  two-toned  rugs,  and  leather  upholstery, 
with  dim,  rich,  brown-toned  Dutch  masterpieces  on  the  walls,  he 


LE  MARTELEUR.      BY  CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 


FANNY  HERSELF  71 

sat  helpless  and  defenseless  while  the  torrent  of  millions  rushed,  and 
swirled,  and  foamed  about  him.  I  think  he  had  fancied,  fifteen 
years  ago,  that  he  would  some  day  be  a  fairly  prosperous  man; 
not  rich,  as  riches  are  counted  nowadays,  but  with  a  comfortable 
number  of  tens  of  thousands  tucked  away.  Two  or  three  hun- 
dred thousand;  perhaps  five  hundred  thousand! — perhaps  a — but, 
nonsense !  Nonsense ! 

And  then  the  thing  had  started.  It  was  as  when  a  man  idly 
throws  a  pebble  into  a  chasm,  or  shoves  a  bit  of  ice  with  the  toe  of 
his  boot,  and  starts  a  snow-slide  that  grows  as  it  goes.  He  had 
started  this  avalanche  of  money,  and  now  it  rushed  on  of  its  own 
momentum,  plunging,  rolling,  leaping,  crashing,  and  as  it  swept  on 
it  gathered  rocks,  trees,  stones,  houses,  everything  that  lay  in  its 
way.  It  was  beyond  the  power  of  human  hand  to  stop  this  tumbling, 
roaring  slide.  In  the  midst  of  it  sat  Nathan  Haynes,  deafened, 
stunned,  terrified  at  the  immensity  of  what  he  had  done. 

He  began  giving  away  huge  sums,  incredible  sums.  It  piled  up 
faster  than  he  could  give  it  away.  And  so  he  sat  there  in  the  office 
hung  with  the  dim  old  masterpieces,  and  tried  to  keep  simple,  tried 
to  keep  sane,  with  that  austerity  that  only  mad  wealth  can  afford — 
or  bitter  poverty.  He  caused  the  land  about  the  plant  to  be  laid 
out  in  sunken  gardens  and  baseball  fields  and  tennis  courts,  so  that 
one  approached  this  monster  of  commerce  through  enchanted  grounds, 
glowing  with  tulips  and  heady  hyacinths  in  spring,  with  roses  in 
June,  blazing  with  salvia  and  golden-glow  and  asters  in  autumn. 
There  was  something  apologetic  about  these  grounds. 

This,  then,  was  the  environment  that  Fanny  Brandeis  had 
chosen.  On  the  face  of  things  you  would  have  said  she  had  chosen 
well.  The  inspiration  of  the  roller  skates  had  not  been  merely  a  lucky 
flash.  That  idea  had  been  part  of  the  consistent  whole.  Her  mind 
was  her  mother's  mind  raised  to  the  nth  power,  and  enhanced  by 
the  genius  she  was  trying  to  crush.  Refusing  to  die,  it  found  expres- 
sion in  a  hundred  brilliant  plans,  of  which  the  roller-skate  idea  was 
only  one. 


THE  EMPORIUM 
BY  HERBERT  GEORGE  WELLS 

WHEN  Kipps  left  New  Romney,  with  a  small  yellow  tin  box, 
a  still  smaller  portmanteau,  a  new  umbrella,  and  a  keepsake  half- 
sixpence,  to  become  a  draper,  he  was  a  youngster  of  fourteen,  thin, 
with  whimsical  drakes'  tails  at  the  poll  of  his  head,  smallish  features, 
and  eyes  that  were  sometimes  very  light  and  sometimes  very  dark, 
gifts  those  of  his  birth;  and  by  the  nature  of  his  training  he  was 
indistinct  in  his  speech,  confused  in  his  mind,  and  retreating  in  his 
manners.  Inexorable  fate  had  appointed  him  to  serve  his  country 
in  commerce,  and  the  same  national  bias  towards  private  enterprise 
and  leaving  bad  alone,  which  entrusted  his  general  education  to 
Mr.  Woodrow,  now  indentured  him  firmly  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Shalford,  of  the  Folkestone  Drapery  Bazaar.  Apprenticeship  is  still 
the  recognized  English  way  to  the  distributing  branch  of  the  social 
service.  If  Mr.  Kipps  had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  have  been  born 
a  German  he  might  have  been  educated  in  an  elaborate  and  costly 
special  school  ("  over-educated-crammed-up  " — Old  Kipps)  to  fit 
him  for  his  end — such  being  their  pedagogic  way.  He  might  .  .  . 
But  why  make  unpatriotic  reflections  in  a  novel?  There  was  nothing 
pedagogic  about  Mr.  Shalford. 

He  was  an  irascible,  energetic  little  man,  with  hairy  hands,  for 
the  most  part  under  his  coat-tails,  a  long,  shiny,  bald  head,  a  pointed, 
aquiline  nose  a  little  askew,  and  a  neatly  trimmed  beard.  He  walked 
lightly  and  with  a  confident  jerk,  and  he  was  given  to  humming.  He 
had  added  to  exceptional  business  "  push,"  bankruptcy  under  the 
old  dispensation,  and  judicious  matrimony.  His  establishment  was 
now  one  of  the  most  considerable  in  Folkestone,  and  he  insisted  on 
every  inch  of  frontage  by  alternate  stripes  of  green  and  yellow  down 
the  houses  over  the  shops.  His  shops  were  numbered  3,  5  and  7 
on  the  street,  and  on  his  billheads  3  to  7.  He  encountered  the  abashed 
and  awe-stricken  Kipps  with  the  praises  of  his  system  and  himself. 
He  spread  himself  out  behind  his  desk  with  a  grip  on  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  and  made  Kipps  a  sort  of  speech.  "  We  expect  y'r  to  work,  y'r 
know,  and  we  expect  y'r  to  study  our  interests,"  explained  Mr. 
72 


THE  EMPORIUM  73 

Shalford  in  the  regal  and  commercial  plural.  "  Our  system  here  is  the 
best  system  y'r  could  have.  I  made  it,  and  I  ought  to  know.  I 
began  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  ladder  when  I  was  fourteen,  and 
there  isn't  a  step  in  it  I  don't  know.  Not  a  step.  Mr.  Booch  in  the 
desk  will  give  y'r  the  card  of  rules  and  fines.  Jest  wait  a  minute." 
He  pretended  to  be  busy  with  some  dusty  memoranda  under  a  paper- 
weight, while  Kipps  stood  in  a  sort  of  paralysis  of  awe  regarding 
his  new  master's  oval  baldness.  "Two  thous'n'  three  forty-seven 
pounds,"  whispered  Mr.  Shalford  audibly,  feigning  forgetfulness  of 
Kipps.  Clearly  a  place  of  great  transactions! 

Mr.  Shalford  rose,  and  handing  Kipps  a  blotting  pad  and  an  ink- 
pot to  carry — mere  symbols  of  servitude,  for  he  made  no  use  of 
them — emerged  into  a  counting-house  where  three  clerks  had  been 
feverishly  busy  ever  since  his  door  handle  had  turned.  "  Booch," 
said  Mr.  Shalford,  "  'ave  y'r  copy  of  the  rules?  "  and  a  down-trodden, 
shabbly  little  old  man,  with  a  ruler  in  one  hand  and  a  quill  pen  in  his 
mouth,  silently  held  out  a  small  book  with  green  and  yellow  covers, 
mainly  devoted,  as  Kipps  presently  discovered,  to  a  voracious  system 
of  fines.  He  became  acutely  aware  that  his  hands  were  full,  and 
that  everybody  was  staring  at  him.  He  hesitated  a  moment  before 
putting  the  ink-pot  down  to  free  a  hand. 

"  Mustn't  fumble  like  that,"  said  Mr.  Shalford  as  Kipps  pocketed 
the  rules.  "  Won't  do  here.  Come  along,  come  along,"  and  he 
cocked  his  coat-tails  high,  as  a  lady  might  hold  up  her  dress,  and  led 
the  way  into  the  shop. 

A  vast  interminable  place  it  seemed  to  Kipps,  with  unending 
shining  counters  and  innumerable  faultlessly  dressed  young  men 
and  presently  Houri-like  young  women  staring  at  him.  Here  there 
was  a  long  vista  of  gloves  dangling  from  overhead  rods,  there  rib- 
bons and  baby-linen.  A  short  young  lady  in  black  mittens  was 
making  out  the  account  of  a  customer,  and  was  clearly  confused  in 
her  addition  by  Shalford's  eagle  eye. 

A  thick-set  young  man  with  a  bald  head  and  a  round,  very  wise 
face,  who  was  profoundly  absorbed  in  adjusting  all  the  empty  chairs 
down  the  counter  to  absolutely  equal  distances,  woke  out  of  his 
preoccupation  and  answered  respectfully  to  a  few  Napoleonic  and 
quite  unnecessary  remarks  from  his  employer.  Kipps  was  told  that 
this  young  man's  name  was  Mr.  Buggins,  and  that  he  was  to  do 
whatever  Mr.  Buggins  told  him  to  do. 


74  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

They  came  round  a  corner  into  a  new  smell,  which  was  destined 
to  be  the  smell  of  Kipps'  life  for  many  years,  the  vague,  distinctive 
smell  of  Manchester  goods.  A  fat  man  with  a  large  nose  jumped — 
actually  jumped — at  their  appearance,  and  began  to  fold  a  pattern 
of  damask  in  front  of  him  exactly  like  an  automaton  that  is  sud- 
denly set  going. 

"  Carshot,  see  to  this  boy  to-morrow,"  said  the  master.  "  See  he 
don't  fumble.  Smart'n  'im  up." 

"  Yussir,"  said  Carshot  fatly,  glanced  at  Kipps,  and  resumed  his 
pattern-folding  with  extreme  zeal. 

"  Whatever  Mr.  Carshot  says  y'r  to  do,  ye  do,"  said  Mr.  Shal- 
ford,  trotting  onward;  and  Carshot  blew  out  his  face  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  relief. 

They  crossed  a  large  room  full  of  the  strangest  things  Kipps  had 
ever  seen.  Ladylike  figures,  surmounted  by  black  wooden  knobs  in 
the  place  of  the  refined  heads  one  might  have  reasonably  expected, 
stood  about  with  a  lifelike  air  of  conscious  fashion. 

"  Costume  room,"  said  Shalford. 

Two  voices  engaged  in  some  sort  of  argument — "  I  can  assure  you, 
Miss  Mergle,  you  are  entirely  mistaken — entirely,  in  supposing  I 
should  do  anything  so  unwomanly," — sank  abruptly,  and  they  dis- 
covered two  young  ladies,  taller  and  fairer  than  any  of  the  other 
young  ladies,  and  with  black  trains  to  their  dresses,  who  were  en- 
gaged in  writing  at  a  little  table.  Whatever  they  told  him  to  do, 
Kipps  gathered  he  was  to  do.  He  was  also,  he  understood,  to  do 
whatever  Carshot  and  Booch  told  him  to  do.  And  there  were  also 
Buggins  and  Mr.  Shalford.  And  not  to  forget  or  fumble! 

They  descended  into  a  cellar  called  "The  Warehouse,"  and 
Kipps  had  an  optical  illusion  of  errand  boys  fighting.  Some  aerial 
voice  said,  "Teddy!  "  and  the  illusion  passed.  He  looked  again, 
and  saw  quite  clearly  that  they  were  packing  parcels  and  always 
would  be,  and  that  the  last  thing  in  the  world  that  they  would  or 
could  possibly  do  was  to  fight.  Yet  he  gathered  from  the  remarks 
Mr.  Shalford  addressed  to  their  busy  backs  that  they  had  been 
fighting — no  doubt  at  some  past  period  of  their  lives. 

Emerging  in  the  shop  again  among  the  litter  of  toys  and  what 
are  called  "  fancy  articles,"  Shalford  withdrew  a  hand  from  beneath 
his  coat-tails  to  indicate  an  overhead  change-carrier.  He  entered 
into  elaborate  calculations  to  show  how  many  minutes  in  one  year 


THE  EMPORIUM  75 

were  saved  thereby,  and  lost  himself  among  the  figures.  "  Seven 
turns  eight  seven  nine — was  it?  Or  seven  eight  nine?  Now,  now! 
Why,  when  I  was  a  boy  your  age  I  c'd  do  a  sum  like  that  as  soon  as 
hear  it.  We'll  soon  get  y'r  into  better  shape  than  that.  Make  you 
Fishent.  Well,  y'r  must  take  my  word,  it  comes  to  pounds  and 
pounds  saved  in  the  year — pounds  and  pounds.  System!  System 
everywhere.  Fishency."  He  went  on  murmuring  "  Fishency  "  and 
"  System  "  at  intervals  for  some  time. 

They  passed  into  a  yard,  and  Mr.  Ghalford  waved  his  hand  to 
his  three  delivery  vans  all  striped  green  and  yellow — "  uniform — 
green,  yell'r — System."  All  over  the  premises  were  pinned  absurd 
little  cards.  "  This  door  locked  after  7.30— By  order,  Edwin  Shal- 
ford,"  and  the  like. 

Mr.  Shalford  always  wrote  "  By  order,"  though  it  conveyed  no 
earthly  meaning  to  him.  He  was  one  of  those  people  who  collect 
technicalities  upon  them  as  the  Reduvius  bug  collects  dirt.  He  was 
the  sort  of  man  who  is  not  only  ignorant,  but  absolutely  incapable 
of  English.  When  he  wanted  to  say  he  had  a  six-penny-ha'penny 
longcloth  to  sell,  he  put  it  thus  to  startled  customers:  "  Can  DO  you 
one,  six  half  if  y'  like."  He  always  omitted  pronouns  and  articles 
and  so  forth;  it  seemed  to  him  the  very  essence  of  the  efficiently 
businesslike.  His  only  preposition  was  "  as  "  or  the  compound  "  as 
per."  He  abbreviated  every  word  he  could,  he  would  have  con- 
sidered himself  the  laughing-stock  of  Wood  Street  if  he  had  chanced 
to  spell  socks  in  any  way  but  "  sox."  But,  on  the  other  hand,  if  he 
saved  words  here,  he  wasted  them  there:  he  never  acknowledged 
an  order  that  was  not  an  esteemed  favor,  nor  sent  a  pattern  without 
begging  to  submit  it.  He  never  stipulated  for  so  many  months' 
credit,  but  bought  in  November  "  as  Jan."  It  was  not  only  words 
he  abbreviated  in  his  London  communications.  In  paying  his  whole- 
salers his  "  System  "  admitted  of  a  constant  error  in  the  discount 
of  a  penny  or  twopence,  and  it  "  facilitated  business,"  he  alleged, 
to  ignore  odd  pence  in  the  cheques  he  wrote.  His  ledger  clerk  was 
so  struck  with  the  beauty  of  this  part  of  the  System  that  he  started 
a  private  one  on  his  own  account  with  the  stamp  box,  that  never 
came  to  Shalford's  knowledge. 

This  admirable  British  merchant  would  glow  with  a  particular 
pride  of  intellect  when  writing  his  London  orders. 

"  Ah!  do  y'r  think  you'll  ever  be  able  to  write  London  orders?  " 


76  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

he  would  say  with  honest  pride  to  Kipps,  waiting  impatiently  long 
after  closing  time  to  take  these  triumphs  of  commercial  efficiency  to 
post,  and  so  end  the  interminable  day. 

Kipps  shook  his  head,  anxious  for  Mr.  Shalford  to  get  on. 

"  Now,  here,  f  example,  I've  written — see? — l  1  piece  1  in.  cott. 
blk,  elas.  I/  or.'  What  do  I  mean  by  that  or,  eh? — d'ye  know?  " 

Kipps  promptly  hadn't  the  faintest  idea. 

41  And  then,  i  2  ea.  silk  net  as  per  patts  herewith  ';  ea.,  eh?  " 

"  Dunno,  sir." 

It  was  not  Mr.  Shalford's  way  to  explain  things.  "  Dear,  dear! 
Pity  you  couldn't  get  some  c'mercial  education  at  your  school. 
'Stid  of  all  this  lit'ry  stuff.  Well,  my  boy,  if  y'  don't  'ussel  a  bit 
y'll  never  write  London  orders,  that's  pretty  plain.  Jest  stick  stamps 
on  all  those  letters,  and  mind  y'r  stick  'em  right  way  up,  and  try  and 
profit  a  little  more  by  the  opportunities  your  aunt  and  uncle  have 
provided  ye.  Can't  say  what'll  happen  t'ye  if  ye  don't." 

And  Kipps,  tired,  hungry,  and  belated,  set  about  stamping  with 
vigor  and  dispatch. 

" Lick  the  envelope"  said  Mr.  Shalford,  "  lick  the  envelope"  as 
though  he  grudged  the  youngster  the  postage-stamp  gum.  "  It's  the 
little  things  mount  up,"  he  would  say;  and,  indeed,  that  was  his 
philosophy  of  life — to  bustle  and  save,  always  to  bustle  and  save. 
His  political  creed  linked  Reform,  which  meant  nothing,  with 
Efficiency,  which  meant  a  sweated  service,  and  Economy,  which 
meant  a  sweated  expenditure,  and  his  conception  of  a  satisfactory 
municipal  life  was  to  "  keep  down  the  rates."  Even  his  religion  was 
to  save  his  soul,  and  to  preach  a  similar  cheese-paring  to  the  world. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  BUSY  BROKER 
BY  O.  HENRY 

PITCHER,  confidential  clerk  in  the  office  of  Harvey  Maxwell, 
broker,  allowed  a  look  of  mild  interest  and  surprise  to  visit  his  usually 
expressionless  countenance  when  his  employer  briskly  entered  at 
half-past  nine  in  company  with  his  young  lady  stenographer.  With 
a  snappy  "  Good-morning,  Pitcher,"  Maxwell  dashed  at  his  desk 
as  though  he  were  intending  to  leap  over  it,  and  then  plunged  into 
the  great  heap  of  letters  and  telegrams  waiting  there  for  him. 

The  young  lady  had  been  Maxwell's  stenographer  for  a  year. 
She  was  beautiful  in  a  way  that  was  decidedly  unstenographic.  She 
forewent  the  pomp  of  the  alluring  pompadour.  She  wore  no  chains, 
bracelets  or  lockets.  She  had  not  the  air  of  being  about  to  accept 
an  invitation  to  luncheon.  Her  dress  was  grey  and  plain,  but  it 
fitted  her  figure  with  fidelity  and  discretion.  In  her  neat  black 
turban  hat  was  the  gold-green  wing  of  a  macaw.  On  this  morning 
she  was  softly  and  shyly  radiant.  Her  eyes  were  dreamily  bright, 
her  cheeks  genuine  peachblow,  her  expression  a  happy  one,  tinged 
with  reminiscence. 

Pitcher,  still  mildly  curious,  noticed  a  difference  in  her  ways  this 
morning.  Instead  of  going  straight  into  the  adjoining  room,  where 
her  desk  was,  she  lingered,  slightly  irresolute,  in  the  outer  office. 
Once  she  moved  over  by  Maxwell's  desk,  near  enough  for  him  to  be 
aware  of  her  presence. 

The  machine  sitting  at  that  desk  was  no  longer  a  man;  it  was 
a  busy  New  York  broker,  moved^  by  buzzing  wheels  and  un- 
coiling springs. 

"  Well— what  is  it?  Anything?  "  asked  Maxwell  sharply.  His 
opened  mail  lay  like  a  bank  of  stage  snow  on  his  crowded  desk.  His 
keen  grey  eye,  impersonal  and  brusque,  flashed  upon  her 
half  impatiently. 

"  Nothing,"  answered  the  stenographer,  moving  away  with  a 
little  smile. 

"  Mr.  Pitcher,"  she  said  to  the  confidential  clerk,  "  did  Mr.  Max- 
well say  anything  yesterday  about  engaging  another  stenographer?  " 

77 


78  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  He  did,"  answered  Pitcher.  "  He  told  me  to  get  another  one. 
I  notified  the  agency  yesterday  afternoon  to  send  over  a  few  samples 
this  morning.  It's  9.45  o'clock,  and  not  a  single  picture  hat  or  piece 
of  pineapple  chewing-gum  has  showed  up  yet." 

"  I  will  do  the  work  as  usual,  then,"  said  the  young  lady,  "  until 
some  one  comes  to  fill  the  place."  And  she  went  to  her  desk  at  once 
and  hung  the  black  turban  hat  with  the  gold-green  macaw  wing  in 
its  accustomed  place. 

He  who  has  been  denied  the  spectacle  of  a  busy  Manhattan 
broker  during  a  rush  of  business  is  handicapped  for  the  profession  of 
anthropology.  The  poet  sings  of  the  "  crowded  hour  of  glorious 
life."  The  broker's  hour  is  not  only  crowded,  but  the  minutes  and 
seconds  are  hanging  to  all  the  straps  and  packing  both  front  and 
rear  platforms. 

And  this  day  was  Harvey  Maxwell's  busy  day.  The  ticker  began 
to  reel  out  jerkily  its  fitful  coils  of  tape,  the  desk  telephone  had  a 
chronic  attack  of  buzzing.  Men  began  to  throng  into  the  office  and 
call  at  him  over  the  railing,  jovially,  sharply,  viciously,  excitedly. 
Messenger  boys  ran  in  and  out  with  messages  and  telegrams.  The 
clerks  in  the  office  jumped  about  like  sailors  during  a  storm.  Even 
Pitcher's  face  relaxed  into  something  resembling  animation. 

On  the  Exchange  there  were  hurricanes  and  landslides  and  snow- 
storms and  glaciers  and  volcanoes,  and  those  elemental  disturbances 
were  reproduced  in  miniature  in  the  brokers'  offices.  Maxwell  shoved 
his  chair  against  the  wall  and  transacted  business  after  the  manner 
of  a  toe  dancer.  He  jumped  from  ticker  to  'phone,  from  desk  to  door, 
with  the  trained  agility  of  a  harlequin. 

In  the  midst  of  this  growing  and  important  stress  the  broker 
became  suddenly  aware  of  a  high-rolled  fringe  of  golden  hair  under 
a  nodding  canopy  of  velvet  and  ostrich  tips,  an  imitation  sealskin 
sacque,  and  a  string  of  beads  as  large  as  hickory  nuts,  ending  near 
the  floor  with  a  silver  heart.  There  was  a  self-possessed  young 
lady  connected  with  these  accessories;  and  Pitcher  was  there  to 
construe  her. 

"Lady  from  the  Stenographer's  Agency  to  see  about  the  posi- 
tion," said  Pitcher. 

Maxwell  turned  half  around,  with  his  hands  full  of  papers  and 
ticker  tape. 

"  What  position?  "  he  asked,  with  a  frown. 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  A  BUSY  BROKER  79 

"  Position  of  stenographer,"  said  Pitcher.  "  You  told  me  yes- 
terday to  call  them  up  and  have  one  sent  over  this  morning." 

"  You  are  losing  your  mind,  Pitcher,"  said  Maxwell.  "  Why 
should  I  have  given  you  any  such  instructions?  Miss  Leslie  has 
given  perfect  satisfaction  during  the  year  she  has  been  here.  The 
place  is  hers  as  long  as  she  chooses  to  retain  it.  There's  no  place 
open  here,  madam.  Countermand  that  order  with  the  agency, 
Pitcher,  and  don't  bring  any  more  of  'em  in  here." 

The  silver  heart  left  the  office,  swinging  and  banging  itself  inde- 
pendently against  the  office  furniture  as  it  indignantly  departed. 
Pitcher  seized  a  moment  to  remark  to  the  bookkeeper  that  the  "  old 
man "  seemed  to  get  more  absent-minded  and  ;forgetful  every 
day  of  the  world. 

The  rush  and  pace  of  business  grew  fiercer  and  faster.  On  the 
floor  they  were  pounding  half  a  dozen  stocks  hi  which  Maxwell's 
customers  were  heavy  investors.  Orders  to  buy  and  sell  were  coming 
and  going  as  swift  as  the  flight  of  swallows.  Some  of  his  own  hold- 
ings were  imperilled,  and  the  man  was  working  like  some  high-geared, 
delicate,  strong  machine — strung  to  full  tension,  going  at  full  speed, 
accurate,  never  hesitating,  with  the  proper  word  and  decision  and 
act  ready  and  prompt  as  clockwork.  Stocks  and  bonds,  loans  and 
mortgages,  margins  and  securities — here  was  a  world  of  finance,  and 
there  was  no  room  in  it  for  the  human  world  or  the  world  of  nature. 

When  the  luncheon  hour  drew  near  there  came  a  slight  lull  in 
the  uproar. 

Maxwell  stood  by  his  desk  with  his  hands  full  of  telegrams  and 
memoranda,  with  a  fountain  pen  over  his  right  ear  and  his  hair 
hanging  in  disorderly  strings  over  his  forehead.  His  window  was 
open,  for  the  beloved  janitress  Spring  had  turned  on  a  little  warmth 
through  the  waking  registers  of  the  earth. 

And  through  the  window  came  a  wandering — perhaps  a  lost — 
odor — a  delicate,  sweet  odor  of  lilac  that  fixed  the  broker  for  a 
moment  immovable.  For  this  odor  belonged  to  Miss  Leslie ;  it  was  her 
own,  and  hers  only. 

The  odor  brought  her  vividly,  almost  tangibly,  before  him. 
The  world  of  finance  dwindled  suddenly  to  a  speck.  And  she  was 
in  the  next  room — twenty  steps  away. 

"  By  George,  I'll  do  it  now,"  said  Maxwell,  half  aloud.  "  I'll 
ask  her  now.  I  wonder  I  didn't  do  it  long  ago." 


80  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

He  dashed  into  the  inner  office  with  the  haste  of  a  short  trying 
to  cover.  He  charged  upon  the  desk  of  the  stenographer. 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  smile.  A  soft  pink  crept  over  her 
cheek,  and  her  eyes  were  kind  and  frank.  Maxwell  leaned  one  elbow 
on  her  desk.  He  still  clutched  fluttering  papers  with  both  hands 
and  the  pen  was  above  his  ear. 

"  Miss  Leslie,"  he  began  hurriedly,  "  I  have  but  a  moment  to 
spare.  I  want  to  say  something  in  that  moment.  Will  you  be  my 
wife?  I  haven't  had  time  to  make  love  to  you  in  the  ordinary  way, 
but  I  really  do  love  you.  Talk  quick,  please — those  fellows  are 
clubbing  the  stuffing  out  of  Union  Pacific." 

"  Oh,  what  are  you  talking  about?  "  exclaimed  the  young  lady. 
She  rose  to  her  feet  and  gazed  upon  him,  round-eyed. 

"  Don't  you  understand?  "  said  Maxwell,  restively.  "  I  want 
you  to  marry  me.  I  love  you,  Miss  Leslie.  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  and 
I  snatched  a  minute  when  things  had  slackened  up  a  bit.  They're 
calling  me  for  the  'phone  now.  Tell  'em  to  wait  a  minute,  Pitcher. 
Won't  you,  Miss  Leslie?  " 

The  stenographer  acted  very  queerly.  At  first  she  seemed  over- 
come with  amazement;  then  tears  flowed  from  her  wondering  eyes; 
and  then  she  smiled  sunnily  through  them,  and  one  of  her  arms  slid 
tenderly  about  the  broker's  neck. 

"  I  know  now,"  she  said,  softly.  "  It's  this  old  business  that  has 
driven  everything  else  out  of  your  head  for  the  time.  I  was  fright- 
ened at  first.  Don't  you  remember,  Harvey?  We  were  married  last 
evening  at  8  o'clock  in  the  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner." 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS 

BY  EDWIN  LEFEVRE 

IT  seemed  to  Fullerton  F.  Colwell,  of  the  famous  Stock-Exchange 
house  of  Wilson  &  Graves,  that  he  had  done  his  full  duty  by  his 
friend  Harry  Hunt.  He  was  a  director  in  a  half-score  of  companies 
— financial  debutantes  which  his  firm  had  "  brought  out "  and  over 
whose  stock-market  destinies  he  presided.  His  partners  left  a  great 
deal  to  him,  and  even  the  clerks  in  the  office  ungrudgingly  acknowl- 
edged that  Mr.  Colwell  was  "  the  hardest- worked  man  in  the  place, 
barring  none  " — an  admission  that  means  much  to  those  who  know 
it  is  always  the  downtrodden  clerks  who  do  all  the  work  and  their 
employers  who  take  all  the  profit  and  credit.  Possibly  the  important 
young  men  who  did  all  the  work  in  Wilson  &  Graves'  office  bore 
witness  to  Mr.  Colwell 's  industry  so  cheerfully,  because  Mr.  Colwell 
was  ever  inquiring,  very  courteously,  and,  above  all,  sympathetically, 
into  the  amount  of  work  each  man  had  to  perform,  and  suggesting, 
the  next  moment,  that  the  laborious  amount  in  question  was  indis- 
putably excessive.  Also,  it  was  he  who  raised  salaries;  wherefore  he 
was  the  most  charming  as  well  as  the  busiest  man  there.  Of  his 
partners,  John  G.  Wilson  was  a  consumptive,  forever  going  from  one 
health  resort  to  another,  devoting  his  millions  to  the  purchase  of 
railroad  tickets  in  the  hope  of  out-racing  Death.  George  B.  Graves 
was  a  dyspeptic,  nervous,  irritable,  and,  to  boot,  penurious;  a  man 
whose  chief  recommendation  at  the  time  Wilson  formed  the  firm  had 
been  his  cheerful  willingness  to  do  all  the  dirty  work.  Frederick  R. 
Denton  was  busy  in  the  "  Board  Room  " — the  Stock  Exchange — all 
day,  executing  orders,  keeping  watch  over  the  market  behavior  of 
the  stocks  with  which  the  firm  was  identified,  and  from  time  to  time 
hearing  things  not  meant  for  his  ears,  being  the  truth  regarding 
Wilson  &  Graves.  But  Fullerton  F.  Colwell  had  to  do  everything 
—in  the  stock  market  and  in  the  office.  He  conducted  the  manipu- 
lation of  the  Wilson  &  Graves  stocks,  took  charge  of  the  unnefarious 
part  of  the  numerous  pools  formed  by  the  firm's  customers — Mr. 
Graves  attending  to  the  other  details — and  had  a  hand  in  the  actual 
management  of  various  corporations.  Also,  he  conferred  with  a 

By  permission,  from  Wall  Street  Stories,  by  Edwin  Lefevre.  Copyright, 
1900,  1901,  by  Harper  &  Bros. 

6  81 


82  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

dozen  people  daily — chiefly  "  big  people,"  in  Wall  Street  parlance— 
who  were  about  to  "  put  through  "  stock-market  "  deals."  He  had 
devoted  his  time,  which  was  worth  thousands,  and  his  brain,  which 
was  worth  millions,  to  disentangling  his  careless  friend's  affairs,  and 
when  it  was  all  over  and  every  claim  adjusted,  and  he  had  refused 
the  executor's  fees  to  which  he  was  entitled,  it  was  found  that  poor 
Harry  Hunt's  estate  not  only  was  free  from  debt,  but  consisted  of 
$38,000  in  cash,  deposited  in  the  Trolley  man's  Trust  Company,  sub- 
ject to  Mrs.  Hunt's  order,  and  drawing  interest  at  the  rate  of  2^ 
per  cent,  per  annum.  He  had  done  his  work  wonderfully  well,  and, 
in  addition  to  the  cash,  the  widow  owned  an  unencumbered  house 
Harry  had  given  her  in  his  lifetime. 

Not  long  after  the  settlement  of  the  estate  Mrs.  Hunt  called  at 
his  office.  It  was  a  very  busy  day.  The  bears  were  misbehaving — 
and  misbehaving  mighty  successfully.  Alabama  Coal  &  Iron — the 
firm's  great  specialty — was  under  heavy  fire  from  "  Sam  "  Sharpe's 
Long  Tom  as  well  as  from  the  room- traders'  Maxims.  All  that  Col- 
well  could  do  was  to  instruct  Denton,  who  was  on  the  ground,  to 
"  support  "Ala.  C.  &  I.  sufficiently  to  discourage  the  enemy,  and  not 
enough  to  acquire  the  company's  entire  capital  stock.  He  was  him- 
self at  that  moment  practising  that  peculiar  form  of  financial  dis- 
simulation which  amounts  to  singing  blithely  at  the  top  of  your  voice 
when  your  beloved  sackful  of  gold  has  been  ripped  by  bearpaws 
and  the  coins  are  pouring  out  through  the  rent.  Every  quotation 
was  of  importance;  a  half-inch  of  tape  might  contain  an  epic  of 
disaster.  It  was  not  wise  to  fail  to  read  every  printed  character. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell." 

He  ceased  to  pass  the  tape  through  his  fingers,  and  turned 
quickly,  almost  apprehensively,  for  a  woman's  voice  was  not  heard 
with  pleasure  at  an  hour  of  the  day  when  distractions  were  undesirable, 

"  Ah!  good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt,"  he  said,  very  politely.  "  I  am 
very  glad  indeed  to  see  you.  And  how  do  you  do?  "  He  shook  hands, 
and  led  her,  a  bit  ceremoniously,  to  a  huge  arm-chair.  His  manners 
endeared  him  even  to  the  big  Wall  Street  operators,  who  were 
chiefly  interested  in  the  terse  speech  of  the  ticker. 

"  Of  course,  you  are  very  well,  Mrs.  Hunt.  Don't  tell  me 
you  are  not." 

"  Ye-es,"  hesitatingly.     "  As  well  as  I  can  hope  to  be  since 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  83 

"  Time  alone,  dear  Mrs.  Hunt,  can  help  us.  You  must  be  very 
brave.  It  is  what  he  would  have  liked." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  she  sighed.    "  I  suppose  I  must." 

There  was  a  silence.    He  stood  by,  deferentially  sympathetic. 

"  Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,"  said  the  ticker. 

What  did  it  mean,  in  figures?  Reduced  to  dollars  and  cents,  what 
did  the  last  three  brassy  taps  say?  Perhaps  the  bears  were  storming 
the  Alabama  Coal  &  Iron  intrenchments  of  "  scaled  buying  orders  "; 
perhaps  ColwelPs  trusted  lieutenant,  Fred  Denton,  had  repulsed  the 
enemy.  Who  was  winning?  A  spasm,  as  of  pain,  passed  over  Mr. 
Fullerton  F.  Colwell's  grave  face.  But  the  next  moment  he  said  to 
her,  slightly  conscience-strickenly,  as  if  he  reproached  himself  for 
thinking  of  the  stock  market  in  her  presence:  "  You  must  not  permit 
yourself  to  brood,  Mrs.  Hunt.  You  know  what  I  thought  of  Harry, 
and  I  need  not  tell  you  how  glad  I  shall  be  to  do  what  I  may,  for  his 
sake,  Mrs.  Hunt,  and  for  your  own." 

"Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick!"  repeated  the  ticker. 

To  avoid  listening  to  the  voluble  little  machine,  he  went  on: 
"  Believe  me,  Mrs.  Hunt,  I  shall  be  only  too  glad  to  serve  you." 

"  You  are  so  kind,  Mr.  Colwell,"  murmured  the  widow;  and 
after  a  pause:  "  I  came  to  see  you  about  that  money." 

"  Yes?  " 

"  They  tell  me  in  the  trust  company  that  if  I  leave  the  money 
there  without  touching  it  I'll  make  $79  a  month." 

"  Let  me  see;  yes;  that  is  about  what  you  may  expect." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Colwell,  I  can't  live  on  that.  Willie's  school  costs 
me  $50,  and  then  there's  Edith's  clothes,"  she  went  on,  with  an  air 
which  implied  that  as  for  herself  she  wouldn't  care  at  all.  "  You  see, 
he  was  so  indulgent,  and  they  are  used  to  so  much.  Of  course,  it's 
a  blessing  we  have  the  house;  but  taxes  take  up  so  much;  and— 
isn't  there  some  way  of  investing  the  money  so  it  could 
bring  more?  " 

"  I  might  buy  some  bonds  for  you.  But  for  your  principal  to  be 
absolutely  safe  at  all  times,  you  will  have  to  invest  in  very  high- 
grade  securities,  which  will  return  to  you  about  3^  per  cent.  That 
would  mean,  let's  see,  $110  a  month." 

"  And  Harry  spent  $10,000  a  year,"  she  murmured  complainingly. 

"  Harry  was  always — er — rather  extravagant." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  he  enjoyed  himself  while  he  lived,"  she  said, 


84  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

quickly.  Then,  after  a  pause:  "  And,  Mr.  Colwell,  if  I  should  get 
tired  of  the  bonds,  could  I  always  get  my  money  back?  " 

"  You  could  always  find  a  ready  market  for  them.  You  might 
sell  them  for  a  little  more  or  for  a  little  less  than  you  paid." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  sell  them,"  she  said,  with  a  business  air, 
"  for  less  than  I  paid.  What  would  be  the  sense?  " 

"  You  are  right,  Mrs.  Hunt,"  he  said,  encouragingly.  "  It 
wouldn't  be  very  profitable,  would  it?  " 

"Ticky-ticky-ticky-ticky-tkky-tkky-tick!"  said  the  ticker.  It 
was  whirring  away  at  a  furious  rate.  Its  story  is  always  interesting 
when  it  is  busy.  And  Colwell  had  not  looked  at  the  tape  in  fully 
five  minutes! 

"  Couldn't  you  buy  something  for  me,  Mr.  Colwell,  that  when  I 
came  to  sell  it  I  could  get  more  than  it  cost  me?  " 

"  No  man  can  guarantee  that,  Mrs.  Hunt." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose  the  little  I  have,"  she  said,  hastily. 

"  Oh,  there  is  no  danger  of  that.  If  you  will  give  me  a  check 
for  $35,000,  leaving  $3000  with  the  trust  company  for  emergencies, 
I  shall  buy  some  bonds  which  I  feel  reasonably  certain  will  advance 
in  price  within  a  few  months." 

"  Ticky-ticky-ticky-tick,"  interrupted  the  ticker.  In  some  inex- 
plicable way  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  brassy  sound  had  an  ominous 
ring,  so  he  added:  "  But  you  will  have  to  let  me  know  promptly, 
Mrs.  Hunt.  The  stock  market,  you  see,  is  not  a  polite  institution. 
It  waits  for  none,  not  even  for  your  sex." 

"  Gracious  me,  must  I  take  the  money  out  of  the  bank  to-day 
and  bring  it  to  you?  " 

"  A  check  will  do."  He  began  to  drum  on  the  desk  nervously 
with  his  fingers,  but  ceased  abruptly  as  he  became  aware  of  it. 

"  Very  well,  I'll  send  it  to  you  to-day.  I  know  you're  very  busy, 
so  I  won't  keep  you  any  longer.  And  you'll  buy  good,  cheap 
bonds  for  me?  " 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Hunt." 

"  There's  no  danger  of  losing,  is  there,  Mr.  Colwell?  " 

"  None  whatever.  I  have  bought  some  for  Mrs.  Colwell,  and  I 
would  not  run  the  slightest  risk.  You  need  have  no  fear  about  them." 

"  It's  exceedingly  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Colwell.  I  am  more  grateful 
than  I  can  say.  I — I " 

"  The  way  to  please  me  is  not  to  mention  it,  Mrs.  Hunt,    I  am 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  85 

going  to  try  to  make  some  money  for  you,  so  that  you  can  at  least 
double  the  income  from  the  trust  company." 

"  Thanks,  ever  so  much.  Of  course,  I  know  you  are  thoroughly 
familiar  with  such  things.  But  I've  heard  so  much  about  the  money 
everybody  loses  in  Wall  Street  that  I  was  half  afraid." 

"  Not  when  you  buy  good  bonds,  Mrs.  Hunt." 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell." 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt.  Remember,  whenever  I  may  be  of 
service  you  are  to  let  me  know  immediately." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  so  much,  Mr.  Colwell.    Good  morning." 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt." 

Mrs.  Hunt  sent  him  a  check  for  $35,000,  and  Colwell  bought  100 
five-per-cent.  gold  bonds  of  the  Manhattan  Electric  Light,  Heat  & 
Power  Company,  paying  96  for  them. 

"  These  bonds,"  he  wrote  to  her,  "  will  surely  advance  in  price, 
and  when  they  touch  a  good  figure  I  shall  sell  a  part,  and  keep  the 
balance  for  you  as  an  investment.  The  operation  is  partly  specu- 
lative, but  I  assure  you  the  money  is  safe.  You  will  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  increase  your  original  capital  and  your  entire  funds  will 
then  be  invested  in  these  same  bonds — Manhattan  Electric  5s — 
as  many  as  the  money  will  buy.  I  hope  within  six  months  to  secure 
for  you  an  income  of  twice  as  much  as  you  have  been  receiving  from 
the  trust  company." 

The  next  morning  she  called  at  his  office. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt.    I  trust  you  are  well." 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell.  I  know  I  am  an  awful  bother 
to  you,  but " 

"  You  are  greatly  mistaken,  Mrs.  Hunt." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  You  see,  I  don't  exactly  understand  about 
those  bonds.  I  thought  you  could  tell  me.  I'm  so  stupid,"  archly. 

"  I  won't  have  you  prevaricate  about  yourself,  Mrs.  Hunt.  Now, 
you  gave  me  $35,000,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Yes."  Her  tone  indicated  that  she  granted  that  much  and 
nothing  more. 

"  Well,  I  opened  an  account  for  you  with  our  firm.  You  were 
credited  with  the  amount.  I  then  gave  an  order  to  buy  one  hundred 
bonds  of  $1000  each.  We  paid  96  for  them." 

"  I  don't  follow  you  quite,  Mr.  Colwell.  I  told  you  " — another 
arch  smile—"  I  was  so  stupid!  " 


86         THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  It  means  that  for  each  $1000-bond  $960  was  paid.  It  brought 
the  total  up  to  $96,000." 

"  But  I  only  had  $35,000  to  begin  with.  You  don't  mean  I've 
made  that  much,  do  you?  " 

"Not  yet,  Mrs.  Hunt.  You  put  in  $35,000;  that  was  your 
margin,  you  know;  and  we  put  hi  the  other  $61,000  and  kept 
the  bonds  as  security.  We  owe  you  $35,000,  and  you  owe  us 
$61,000,  and " 

"  But — I  know  you'll  laugh  at  me,  Mr.  Colwell — but  I  really 
can't  help  thinking  it's  something  like  the  poor  people  you  read  about, 
who  mortgage  their  houses,  and  they  go  on,  and  the  first  thing  you 
know  some  real-estate  agent  owns  the  house  and  you  have  nothing. 
I  have  a  friend,  Mrs.  Stillwell,  who  lost  hers  that  way,"  she  fin- 
ished, corroboratively. 

"  This  is  not  a  similar  case,  exactly.  The  reason  why  you  use 
a  margin  is  that  you  can  do  much  more  with  the  money  that  way 
than  if  you  bought  outright.  It  protects  your  broker  against  a  depre- 
ciation in  the  security  purchased,  which  is  all  he  wants.  In  this  case 
you  theoretically  owe  us  $61,000,  but  the  bonds  are  in  your  name, 
and  they  are  worth  $96,000,  so  that  if  you  want  to  pay  us  back, 
all  you  have  to  do  is  to  order  us  to  sell  the  bonds,  return  the  money 
we  have  advanced,  and  keep  the  balance  of  your  margin;  that  is, 
of  your  original  sum." 

"  I  don't  understand  why  I  should  owe  the  firm.  I  shouldn't 
mind  so  much  owing  you,  because  I  know  you'd  never  take  advantage 
of  my  ignorance  of  business  matters.  But  I've  never  met  Mr.  Wilson 
nor  Mr.  Graves.  I  don't  even  know  how  they  look." 

"  But  you  know  me,"  said  Mr.  Colwell,  with  patient  courtesy. 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  that  I'm  afraid  of  being  cheated,  Mr.  Colwell,"  she 
said  hastily  and  reassuringly;  "  but  I  don't  wish  to  be  under  obliga- 
tions to  any  one,  particularly  utter  strangers;  though,  of  course,  if 
you  say  it  is  all  right,  I  am  satisfied." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Hunt,  don't  worry  about  this  matter.  We 
bought  these  bonds  at  96.  If  the  price  should  advance  to  110,  as  I 
think  it  will,  then  you  can  sell  three-fifths  for  $66,000,  pay  us  back 
$61,000,  and  keep  $5000  for  emergencies  in  savings  banks  drawing 
4  per  cent,  interest,  and  have  in  addition  40  bonds  which  will  pay 
you  $2000  a  year." 

"  That  would  be  lovely.    And  the  bonds  are  now  96?  " 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  87 

"  Yes;  you  will  always  find  the  price  in  the  financial  page  of  the 
newspapers,  where  it  says  BONDS.  Look  for  Man.  Elec.  55"  and 
he  showed  her. 

"  Oh,  thanks,  ever  so  much.  Of  course,  I  am  a  great  bother, 
I  know " 

"  You  are  nothing  of  the  kind,  Mrs.  Hunt.  I'm  only  too  glad  to 
be  of  the  slightest  use  to  you." 

Mr.  Colwell,  busy  with  several  important  deals,  did  not  follow 
closely  the  fluctuations  in  the  price  of  Manhattan  Electric  Light, 
Heat  &  Power  Company  5s.  The  fact  that  there  had  been  any 
change  at  all  was  made  clear  to  him  by  Mrs.  Hunt.  She  called  a 
few  days  after  her  first  visit,  with  perturbation  written  large  on  her 
face.  Also,  she  wore  the  semi-resolute  look  of  a  person  who  expects 
to  hear  unacceptable  excuses. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell." 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Hunt?    Well,  I  hope." 

"  Oh,  I  am  well  enough.  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much  for  my 
financial  matters."  She  had  acquired  the  phrase  from  the  financial 
reports  which  she  had  taken  to  reading  religiously  every  day. 

"  Why,  how  is  that?  " 

"  They  are  95  now,"  she  said,  a  trifle  accusingly. 

"  Who  are  they,  pray,  Mrs.  Hunt?  "  in  surprise. 

"  The  bonds.    I  saw  it  in  last  night's  paper." 

Mr.  Colwell  smiled.  Mrs.  Hunt  almost  became  indignant  at 
his  levity. 

"  Don't  let  that  worry  you,  Mrs.  Hunt.  The  bonds  are  all  right. 
The  market  is  a  trifle  dull;  that's  all." 

"  A  friend,"  she  said,  very  slowly,  "  who  knows  all  about  Wall 
Street,  told  me  last  night  that  it  made  a  difference  of  $1000  to  me." 

"  So  it  does,  in  a  way;  that  is,  if  you  tried  to  sell  your  bonds. 
But  as  you  are  not  going  to  do  so  until  they  show  you  a  handsome 
profit,  you  need  not  worry.  Don't  be  concerned  about  the  matter, 
I  beg  of  you.  When  the  time  comes  for  you  to  sell  the  bonds  111  let 
you  know.  Never  mind  if  the  price  goes  off  a  point  or  two.  You 
are  amply  protected.  Even  if  there  should  be  a  panic  I'll  see  that 
you  are  not  sold  out,  no  matter  how  low  the  price  goes.  You  are  not 
to  worry  about  it;  in  fact,  you  are  not  to  think  about  it  at  all." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  ever  so  much,  Mr.  Colwell.  I  didn't  sleep  a  wink 
last  night.  But  I  knew " 


88  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

A  clerk  came  in  with  some  stock  certificates  and  stopped  short. 
He  wanted  Mr.  ColwelPs  signature  in  a  hurry,  and  at  the  same  time 
dared  not  interrupt.  Mrs.  Hunt  thereupon  rose  and  said:  "  Well,  I 
won't  take  up  any  more  of  your  time.  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell. 
Thanks  ever  so  much." 

"  Don't  mention  it,  Mrs.  (Hunt.  Good  morning.  You  are 
going  to  do  very  well  with  those  bonds  if  you  only  have  patience." 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  patient  now  that  I  know  all  about  it;  yes,  indeed. 
And  I  hope  your  prophecy  will  be  fulfilled.  Good  morning, 
Mr.  Colwell." 

Little  by  little  the  bonds  continued  to  decline.  The  syndicate  in 
charge  was  not  ready  to  move  them.  But  Mrs.  Hunt's  unnamed 
friend — her  Cousin  Emily's  husband — who  was  employed  in  an  up- 
town bank,  did  not  know  all  the  particulars  of  that  deal.  He  knew 
the  Street  in  the  abstract,  and  had  accordingly  implanted  the  seed 
of  insomnia  in  her  quaking  soul.  Then,  as  he  saw  values  decline, 
he  did  his  best  to  make  the  seed  grow,  fertilizing  a  naturally  rich 
soil  with  ominous  hints  and  head-shakings  and  with  phrases  that 
made  her  firmly  believe  he  was  gradually  and  considerately  pre- 
paring her  for  the  worst.  On  the  third  day  of  her  agony  Mrs.  Hunt 
walked  into  Col  well's  office.  Her  face  was  pale  and  she  looked  dis- 
tressed. Mr.  Colwell  sighed  involuntarily — a  scarcely  perceptible 
and  not  very  impolite  sigh — and  said:  "  Good  morning  Mrs.  Hunt." 

She  nodded  gravely  and,  with  a  little  gasp,  said,  tremulously: 
"  The  bonds!  " 

"  Yes?    What  about  them?  " 

She  gasped  again,  and  said:  "  The  p-p-papers!  " 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Hunt?  " 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  nervously,  as  if  exhausted.  After  a 
pause  she  said:  "  It's  in  all  the  papers.  I  thought  the  Herald  might 
be  mistaken,  so  I  bought  the  Tribune  and  the  Times  and  the  Sun. 
But  no.  It  was  the  same  in  all.  It  was,"  she  added  tragically,  "  93 !  " 

"  Yes?  "  he  said,  smilingly. 

The  smile  did  not  reassure  her;  it  irritated  her  and  aroused  her 
suspicions.  By  him,  of  all  men,  should  her  insomnia  be  deemed  no 
laughing  matter. 

"  Doesn't  that  mean  a  loss  of  $3000?  "  she  asked.  There  was  a 
deny-it-if-you-dare  inflection  in  her  voice  of  which  she  was  not  con- 
scious. Her  cousin's  husband  had  been  a  careful  gardener. 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  89 

"  No,  because  you  are  not  going  to  sell  your  bonds  at  93,  but  at 
110,  or  thereabouts." 

"  But  if  I  did  want  to  sell  the  bonds  now,  wouldn't  I  lose  $3000?  " 
she  queried,  challengingly.  Then  she  hastened  to  answer  herself: 
"  Of  course  I  would,  Mr.  Colwell.  Even  I  can  tell  that." 

"  You  certainly  would,  Mrs.  Hunt;  but " 

"  I  knew  I  was  right,"  with  irrepressible  triumph. 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  sell  the  bonds." 

"  Of  course,  I  don't  want  to,  because  I  can't  afford  to  lose  any 
money,  much  less  $3000.  But  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  losing  it. 
I  was  warned  from  the  first,"  she  said,  as  if  that  made  it  worse.  "  I 
certainly  had  no  business  to  risk  my  all."  She  had  waived  the  right 
to  blame  some  one  else,  and  there  was  something  consciously  just 
and  judicial  about  her  attitude  that  was  eloquent.  Mr.  Colwell 
was  moved  by  it. 

"  You  can  have  your  money  back,  Mrs.  Hunt,  if  you  wish  it," 
he  told  her,  quite  unprofessionally.  "  You  seem  to  worry  about  it 
so  much." 

"  Oh,  I  am  not  worrying,  exactly;  only,  I  do  wish  I  hadn't 
bought — I  mean,  the  money  was  so  safe  in  the  Trolleyman's  Trust 
Company,  that  I  can't  help  thinking  I  might  just  as  well  have  let  it 
stay  where  it  was,  even  if  it  didn't  bring  me  in  so  much.  But,  of 
course,  if  you  want  me  to  leave  it  here,"  she  said,  very  slowly  to 
give  him  every  opportunity  to  contradict  her,  "  of  course,  I'll  do 
just  as  you  say." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Hunt,"  Colwell  said,  very  politely,  "  my  only 
desire  is  to  please  you  and  to  help  you.  When  you  buy  bonds  you 
must  be  prepared  to  be  patient.  It  may  take  months  before  you 
will  be  able  to  sell  yours  at  a  profit,  and  I  don't  know  how  low  the 
price  will  go  in  the  meantime.  Nobody  can  tell  you  that,  because 
nobody  knows.  But  it  need  make  no  difference  to  you  whether  the 
bonds  go  to  90,  or  even  to  85,  which  is  unlikely." 

"  Why,  how  can  you  say  so,  Mr.  Colwell?  If  the  bonds  go  to 
90,  I'll  lose  $6000— -my  friend  said  it  was  one  thousand  for  every 
number  down.  And  at  85  that  would  be  " — counting  on  her  fingers 
— "  eleven  numbers,  that  is,  eleven — thousand — dollars!  "  And  she 
gazed  at  him,  awe-strickenly,  reproachfully.  "  How  can  you  say  it 
would  make  no  difference,  Mr.  Colwell?  " 

Mr.  Colwell  fiercely  hated  the  unnamed  "  friend,"  who  had  told 


90  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

her  so  little  and  yet  so  much.  But  he  said  to  her,  mildly:  "  I  thought 
that  I  had  explained  all  that  to  you.  It  might  hurt  a  weak  specu- 
lator if  the  bonds  declined  ten  points,  though  such  a  decline  is  utterly 
improbable.  But  it  won't  affect  you  in  the  slightest,  since,  having 
an  ample  margin,  you  would  not  be  forced  to  sell.  You  would  simply 
hold  on  until  the  price  rose  again.  Let  me  illustrate.  Supposing 
your  house  cost  $10,000,  and— 

"  Harry  paid  $32,000,"  she  said,  correctingly.  On  second 
thought  she  smiled,  in  order  to  let  him  see  that  she  knew  her  interpo- 
lation was  irrelevant.  But  he  might  as  well  know  the  actual  cost. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  good-humoredly,  "  we'll  say  $32,000,  which 
was  also  the  price  of  every  other  house  in  that  block.  And  suppose 
that,  owing  to  some  accident,  or  for  any  reason  whatever,  nobody 
could  be  found  to  pay  more  than  $25,000  for  one  of  the  houses,  and 
three  or  four  of  your  neighbors  sold  theirs  at  that  price.  But  you 
wouldn't  because  you  knew  that  in  the  fall,  when  everybody  came 
back  to  town,  you  would  find  plenty  of  people  who'd  give  you  $50,000 
for  your  house;  you  wouldn't  sell  it  for  $25,000,  and  you  wouldn't 
worry.  Would  you,  now?  "  he  finished,  cheerfully. 

"  No,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I  wouldn't  worry.  But,"  hesitatingly, 
for,  after  all,  she  felt  the  awkwardness  of  her  position,  "  I  wish  I  had 
the  money  instead  of  the  bonds."  And  she  added,  self-defensively: 
"  I  haven't  slept  a  wink  for  three  nights  thinking  about  this." 

The  thought  of  his  coming  emancipation  cheered  Mr.  Colwell 
immensely.  "  Your  wish  shall  be  gratified,  Mrs.  Hunt.  Why  didn't 
you  ask  me  before,  if  you  felt  that  way?  "  he  said,  in  mild  reproach. 
And  he  summoned  a  clerk. 

"  Make  out  a  check  for  $35,000  payable  to  Mrs.  Rose  Hunt,  and 
transfer  the  100  Manhattan  Electric  Light  5s  to  my  personal  account." 

He  gave  her  the  check  and  told  her:  "  Here  is  the  money.  I  am 
very  sorry  that  I  unwittingly  caused  you  some  anxiety.  But  all's 
well  that  ends  well.  Any  time  that  I  can  be  of  service  to  you — Not  at 
all.  Don't  thank  me,  please;  no.  Good  morning." 

But  he  did  not  tell  her  that  by  taking  over  her  account  he  paid 
$96,000  for  bonds  he  could  have  bought  in  the  open  market  for 
$93,000.  He  was  the  politest  man  in  Wall  Street;  and,  after  all, 
he  had  known  Hunt  for  many  years. 

A  week  later  Manhattan  Electric  5-per-cent.  bonds  sold  at  96 
again.  Mrs.  Hunt  called  on  him.  It  was  noon,  and  she  evidently 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  91 

had  spent  the  morning  mustering  up  courage  for  the  visit.  They 
greeted  one  another,  she  embarrassed  and  he  courteous  and  kindly 
as  usual. 

"  Mr.  Colwell,  you  still  have  those  bonds,  haven't  you?  " 

"Why,  yes." 

"  I— I  think  I'd  like  to  take  them  back." 

"  Certainly,  Mrs.  Hunt.  I'll  find  out  how  much  they  are  selling 
for."  He  summoned  a  clerk  to  get  a  quotation  on  Manhattan 
Electric  5s.  The  clerk  telephoned  to  one  of  their  bond-specialists, 
and  learned  that  the  bonds  could  be  bought  at  96^.  He  reported  to 
Mr.  Colwell,  and  Mr.  Colwell  told  Mrs.  Hunt,  adding:  "  So  you  see 
they  are  practically  where  they  were  when  you  bought  them  before." 

She  hesitated.  "  I — I — didn't  you  buy  them  from  me  at  93? 
I'd  like  to  buy  them  back  at  the  same  price  I  sold  them  to  you." 

"  No,  Mrs.  Hunt,"  he  said;  "  I  bought  them  from  you  at  96." 

"But  the  price  was  93."  And  she  added,  corroboratively:  "  Don't 
you  remember  it  was  in  all  the  papers?  " 

"  Yes,  but  I  gave  you  back  exactly  the  same  amount  that  I 
received  from  you,  and  I  had  the  bonds  transferred  to  my  account. 
They  stand  on  our  books  as  having  cost  me  96." 

"  But  couldn't  you  let  me  have  them  at  93?  "  she  persisted. 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Mrs.  Hunt,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  could.  If 
you  buy  them  in  the  open  market  now,  you  will  be  in  exactly  the 
same  position  as  before  you  sold  them,  and  you  will  make  a  great 
deal  of  money,  because  they  are  going  up  now.  Let  me  buy  them  for 
you  at  96^." 

"  At  93,  you  mean,"  with  a  tentative  smile. 

"  At  whatever  price  they  may  be  selling  for,"  he  corrected, 
patiently. 

"  Why  did  you  let  me  sell  them,  Mr.  Colwell?  "  she  asked 
plaintively. 

"  But,  my  dear  madam,  if  you  buy  them  now,  you  will  be  no 
worse  off  than  if  you  had  kept  the  original  lot." 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  it  is  that  I  have  to  pay  96^  now  for  the 
very  same  bonds  I  sold  last  Tuesday  at  93.  If  it  was  some  other 
bonds,"  she  added,  "  I  wouldn't  mind  so  much." 

"  My  dear  Mrs.  Hunt,  it  makes  no  difference  which  bonds  you 
hold.  They  have  all  risen  in  price,  yours  and  mine  and  everybody's; 
your  lot  was  the  same  as  any  other  lot.  You  see  that,  don't  you?  " 


92        THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"Ye-es;  but— 

"  Well,  then,  you  are  exactly  where  you  were  before  you  bought 
any.  You've  lost  nothing,  because  you  received  your  money 
back  intact." 

"  I'm  willing  to  buy  them,"  she  said  resolutely,  "  at  93." 

"  Mrs.  Hunt,  I  wish  I  could  buy  them  for  you  at  that  price. 
But  there  are  none  for  sale  cheaper  than  96^." 

"  Oh,  why  did  I  let  you  sell  my  bonds!  "  she  said  disconsolately. 

"  Well,  you  worried  so  much  because  they  had  declined  that " 

"  Yes,  but  I  didn't  know  anything  about  business  matters.  You 
know  I  didn't,  Mr.  Colwell,"  she  finished,  accusingly. 

He  smiled  in  his  good-natured  way.  "  Shall  I  buy  the  bonds  for 
you?  ''  he  asked.  He  knew  the  plans  of  the  syndicate  in  charge,  and 
being  sure  the  bonds  would  advance,  he  thought  she  might  as  well 
share  in  the  profits.  At  heart  he  felt  sorry  for  her. 

She  smiled  back.  "  Yes,"  she  told  him,  "  at  93."  It  did  not  seem 
right  to  her,  notwithstanding  his  explanations,  that  she  should  pay 
96^4  for  them,  when  the  price  a  few  days  ago  was  93. 

"  But  how  can  I,  if  they  are  96^  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Colwell,  it  is  93  or  nothing."  She  was  almost  pale  at  her 
own  boldness.  It  really  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  price  had  only  been 
waiting  for  her  to  sell  out  in  order  to  advance.  And  though  she 
wanted  the  bonds,  she  did  not  feel  like  yielding. 

"  Then  I  very  much  fear  it  will  have  to  be  nothing." 

"  Er — good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell,"  on  the  verge  of  tears. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt."  And  before  he  knew  it,  forgetting 
all  that  had  gone  before,  he  added:  "  Should  you  change  your  mind, 
I  should  be  glad  to " 

"  I  know  I  wouldn't  pay  more  than  93  if  I  lived  to  be  a  thousand 
years."  She  looked  expectantly  at  him,  to  see  if  he  had  repented, 
and  she  smiled — the  smile  that  is  a  woman's  last  resort,  that  says, 
almost  articulately:  "  I  know  you  will,  of  course,  do  as  I  ask.  My 
question  is  only  a  formality.  I  know  your  nobility,  and  I  fear  not." 
But  he  only  bowed  her  out,  very  politely. 

On  the  Stock  Exchange  the  price  of  Man.  Elec.  L.  H.  &  P.  Co.  $s 
rose  steadily.  Mrs.  Hunt,  too  indignant  to  feel  lachrymose,  discussed 
the  subject  with  her  Cousin  Emily  and  her  husband.  Emily  was  very 
much  interested.  Between  her  and  Mrs.  Hunt  they  forced  the  poor 
man  to  make  strange  admissions,  and,  deliberately  ignoring  his  feeble 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  93 

protests,  they  worked  themselves  up  to  the  point  of  believing  that, 
while  it  would  be  merely  generous  of  Mr.  Colwell  to  let  his  friend's 
widow  have  the  bonds  at  93,  it  would  be  only  his  obvious  duty  to 
let  her  have  them  at  96^2.  The  moment  they  reached  this  decision 
Mrs.  Hunt  knew  how  to  act.  And  the  more  she  thought  the  more 
indignant  she  became.  The  next  morning  she  called  on  her  late 
husband's  executor  and  friend. 

Her  face  wore  the  look  often  seen  on  those  ardent  souls  who 
think  their  sacred  and  inalienable  rights  have  been  trampled  upon 
by  the  tyrant  Man,  but  who  at  the  same  time  feel  certain  the  hour 
of  retribution  is  near. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Colwell.  I  came  to  find  out  exactly  what 
you  propose  to  do  about  my  bonds."  Her  voice  conveyed  the  im- 
pression that  she  expected  violent  opposition,  perhaps  even  bad 
language,  from  him. 

"  Good  morning,  Mrs.  Hunt.    Why,  what  do  you  mean?  " 

His  affected  ignorance  deepened  the  lines  on  her  face.  Instead  of 
bluster  he  was  using  finesse! 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  know,  Mr.  Colwell,"  she  said,  meaningly. 

"  Well,  I  really  don't.  I  remember  you  wouldn't  heed  my  advice 
when  I  told  you  not  to  sell  out,  and  again  when  I  advised  you  to 
buy  them  back." 

"  Yes,  at  96>^,"  she  burst  out,  indignantly. 

"  Well,  if  you  had,  you  would  to-day  have  a  profit  of  over  $7000." 

"  And  whose  fault  is  it  that  I  haven't?  "  She  paused  for  a  reply. 
Receiving  none,  she  went  on:  "  But  never  mind;  I  have  decided  to 
accept  your  offer,"  very  bitterly,  as  if  a  poor  widow  could  not  afford 
to  be  a  chooser;  "  I'll  take  those  bonds  at  96^."  And  she  added, 
under  her  breath:  "  Although  it  really  ought  to  be  93.  " 

"  But,  Mrs.  Hunt,"  said  Colwell,  in  measureless  astonishment, 
"you  can't  do  that,  you  know.  You  wouldn't  buy  them  when  I 
wanted  you  to,  and  I  can't  buy  them  for  you  now  at  96^.  Really, 
you  ought  to  see  that." 

Cousin  Emily  and  she  had  gone  over  a  dozen  imaginary  inter- 
views with  Mr.  Colwell — of  varying  degrees  of  storminess — the  night 
before,  and  they  had,  in  an  idle  moment,  and  not  because  they  really 
expected  it,  represented  Mr.  Colwell  as  taking  that  identical  stand. 
Mrs.  Hunt  was,  accordingly,  prepared  to  show  both  that  she  knew 
her  moral  and  technical  rights,  and  that  she  was  ready  to  resist  any 


94  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

attempt  to  ignore  them.  So  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  ferociously  calm 
that  it  should  have  warned  any  guilty  man:  "  Mr.  Colwell,  will  you 
answer  me  one  question?  " 

"  A  thousand,  Mrs.  Hunt,  with  pleasure." 

"  No;  only  one.  Have  you  kept  the  bonds  that  I  bought,  or  have 
you  not?  " 

"  What  difference  does  that  make,  Mrs.  Hunt?  " 

He  evaded  the  answer! 

"  Yes  or  no,  please.  Have  you,  or  have  you  not,  those  same 
identical  bonds?  " 

"  Yes;  I  have.    But " 

"  And  to  whom  do  those  bonds  belong,  by  rights?  "  She  was 
still  pale,  but  resolute. 

"  To  me,  certainly." 

"  To  you,  Mr.  Colwell?  "  She  smiled.  And  in  her  smile  were 
a  thousand  feelings;  but  not  mirth. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Hunt,  to  me." 

"  And  do  you  propose  to  keep  them?  " 

"  I  certainly  do." 

"  Not  even  if  I  pay  96*/2  will  you  give  them  to  me?  " 

"  Mrs.  Hunt,"  Colwell  said  with  warmth,  "  when  I  took  those 
bonds  off  your  hands  at  93  it  represented  a  loss  on  paper  of  $3000 — 

She  smiled  in  pity — pity  for  his  judgment  in  thinking  her  so 
hopelessly  stupid. 

"  And  when  you  wanted  me  to  sell  them  back  to  you  at  93  after 
they  had  risen  to  96^2,  if  I  had  done  as  you  wished,  it  would  have 
meant  an  actual  loss  of  $3000  to  me." 

Again  she  smiled — the  same  smile,  only  the  pity  was  now  mingled 
with  rising  indignation. 

"  For  Harry's  sake  I  was  willing  to  pocket  the  first  loss,  in  order 
that  you  might  not  worry.  But  I  didn't  see  why  I  should  make 
you  a  present  of  $3000,"  he  said,  very  quietly. 

"  I  never  asked  you  to  do  it,"  she  retorted,  hotly. 

"  If  you  had  lost  any  money  through  my  fault,  it  would  have 
been  different.  But  you  had  your  original  capital  unimpaired.  You 
had  nothing  to  lose,  if  you  bought  back  the  same  bonds  at  practically 
the  same  price.  Now  you  come  and  ask  me  to  sell  you  the  bonds 
at  96JX  that  are  selling  in  the  market  for  104,  as  a  reward,  I  suppose, 
for  your  refusal  to  take  my  advice." 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  BONDS  95 

"  Mr.  Colwell,  you  take  advantage  of  my  position  to  insult  me. 
And  Harry  trusted  you  so  much !  But  let  me  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
going  to  let  you  do  just  as  you  please.  No  doubt  you  would  like  to 
have  me  go  home  and  forget  how  youVe  acted  toward  me.  But  I  am 
going  to  consult  a  lawyer,  and  see  if  I  am  to  be  treated  this  way  by 
a  friend  of  my  husband's.  YouVe  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  Colwell." 

"  Yes,  madam,  I  certainly  have.  And,  in  order  to  avoid  making 
any  more,  you  will  oblige  me  greatly  by  never  again  calling  at  this 
office.  By  all  means  consult  a  lawyer.  Good  morning,  madam,"  said 
the  politest  man  in  Wall  Street. 

"  We'll  see,"  was  all  she  said;  and  she  left  the  room. 

Colwell  paced  up  and  down  his  office  nervously.  It  was  seldom 
that  he  allowed  himself  to  lose  his  temper  and  he  did  not  like  it. 
The  ticker  whirred  away  excitedly,  and  in  an  absent-minded,  half- 
disgusted  way  he  glanced  sideways  at  it. 

"  Man.  Elec.  5$,  106^,"  he  read  on  the  tape. 


THE  WHEAT  PIT 
BY  FRANK  NORRIS 

THE  Board  of  Trade  was  a  vast  enclosure,  lighted  on  either  side 
by  great  windows  of  colored  glass,  the  roof  supported  by  thin  iron  pil- 
lars elaborately  decorated.  To  the  left  were  the  bulletin  blackboards, 
and  beyond  these,  in  the  northwest  angle  of  the  floor,  a  great  railed-in 
space  where  the  Western  Union  Telegraph  was  installed.  To  the 
right,  on  the  other  side  of  the  room,  a  row  of  tables,  laden  with 
neatly  arranged  paper  bags  half  full  of  samples  of  grains,  stretched 
along  the  east  wall  from  the  doorway  of  the  public  room  at  one  end 
to  the  telephone  room  at  the  other. 

The  center  of  the  floor  was  occupied  by  the  pits.  To  the  left  and 
to  the  front  of  Landry  the  provision  pit,  to  the  right  the  corn  pit, 
while  further  on  at  the  north  extremity  of  the  floor,  and  nearly  under 
the  visitors'  gallery,  much  larger  than  the  other  two,  and  flanked 
by  the  wicket  of  the  official  recorder,  was  the  wheat  pit  itself. 

Directly  opposite  the  visitors'  gallery,  high  upon  the  south  wall 
a  great  dial  was  affixed,  and  on  the  dial  a  marking  hand  that  indi- 
cated the  current  price  of  wheat,  fluctuating  with  the  changes  made 
in  the  Pit.  Just  now  it  stood  at  ninety- three  and  three-eighths,  the 
closing  quotation  of  the  preceding  day. 

As  yet  all  the  pits  were  empty.  It  was  some  fifteen  minutes  after 
nine.  Landry  checked  his  hat  and  coat  at  the  coat-room  near  the 
north  entrance,  and  slipped  into  an  old  tennis  jacket  of  striped  blue 
flannel.  Then,  hatless,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  he  leisurely  crossed 
the  floor,  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the  chairs  that  were  ranged  in  files 
upon  the  floor  in  front  of  the  telegraph  enclosure.  He  scrutinized 
again  the  dispatches  and  orders  that  he  held  in  his  hands;  then,  having 
fixed  them  in  his  memory,  tore  them  into  very  small  bits,  looking 
vaguely  about  the  room,  developing  his  plan  of  campaign  for 
the  morning. 

In  a  sense  Landry  Court  had  a  double  personality.  Away  from 
the  neighborhood  and  influence  of  La  Salle  Street,  he  was  "  rattle- 
brained," absent-minded,  impractical,  and  easily  excited,  the  last 
96 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  97, 

fellow  in  the  world  to  be  trusted  with  any  business  responsibility. 
But  the  thunder  of  the  streets  around  the  Board  of  Trade,  and,  above 
all,  the  movement  and  atmosphere  of  the  floor  itself  awoke  within 
him  a  very  different  Landry  Court ;  a  whole  new  set  of  nerves  came 
into  being  with  the  tap  of  the  nine-thirty  gong,  a  whole  new  system  of 
brain  machinery  began  to  move  with  the  first  figures  called  in  the  Pit. 
And  from  that  instant  until  the  close  of  the  session,  no  floor  trader, 
no  broker's  clerk  nor  scalper  was  more  alert,  more  shrewd,  or  kept 
his  head  more  surely  than  the  same  young  fellow  who  confused  his 
social  engagements  for  the  evening  of  the  same  day.  The  Landry 
Court  the  Dearborn  girls  knew  was  a  far  different  young  man  from 
him  who  now  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  arms  of  the  chair  upon  the 
floor  of  the  Board,  and,  his  eyes  narrowing,  his  lips  tightening,  began 
to  speculate  upon  what  was  to  be  the  temper  of  the  Pit  that  morning. 

Meanwhile  the  floor  was  beginning  to  fill  up.  Over  in  the  railed-in 
space,  where  the  hundreds  of  telegraph  instruments  were  in  place, 
the  operators  were  arriving  in  twos  and  threes.  They  hung  their  hats 
and  ulsters  upon  the  pegs  in  the  wall  back  of  them,  and  in  linen 
coats,  or  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  went  to  their  seats,  or,  sitting  upon 
their  tables,  called  back  and  forth  to  each  other,  joshing,  cracking 
jokes.  Some  few  addressed  themselves  directly  to  work,  and  here 
and  there  the  intermittent  clicking  of  a  key  began,  like  a  diligent 
cricket  busking  himself  in  advance  of  its  mates. 

From  the  corridors  on  the  ground  floor  up  through  the  south 
doors  came  the  pit  traders  in  increasing  groups.  The  noise  of  foot- 
steps began  to  echo  from  the  high  vaulting  of  the  roof.  A  messenger 
boy  crossed  the  floor  chanting  an  unintelligible  name. 

The  groups  of  traders  gradually  converged  upon  the  corn  and 
wheat  pits,  and  on  the  steps  of  the  latter,  their  arms  crossed  upon 
their  knees,  two  men,  one  wearing  a  silk  skull-cap  all  awry,  conversed 
earnestly  in  low  tones. 

Winston,  a  great,  broad-shouldered,  bass-voiced  fellow  of  some 
thirty-five  years,  who  was  associated  with  Landry  in  executing  the 
orders  of  the  Gretry-Converse  house,  came  up  to  him,  and,  omitting 
any  salutation,  remarked,  deliberately,  slowly: 

"What's  all  this  about  this  trouble  between  Turkey  and  England?" 

But  before  Landry  could  reply  a  third  trader  for  the  Gretry  Com- 
pany joined  the  two.  This  was  a  young  fellow  named  Rusbridge, 
lean,  black-haired,  a  constant  excitement  glinting  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 
7 


98        THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Say,"  he  exclaimed,  "  there's  something  in  that,  there's  some- 
thing in  that!  " 

"  Where  did  you  hear  it?  "  demanded  Landry. 

"  Oh — everywhere."  Rnsbridge  made  a  vague  gesture  with  one 
arm.  "  Hirsch  seemed  to  know  all  about  it.  It  appears  that  there's 
talk  of  mobilizing  the  Mediterranean  squadron." 

"  Might  ask  that l  Inter-Ocean '  reporter.  He'd  be  likely  to  know. 
I've  seen  him  'round  here  this  morning,  or  you  might  telephone  the 
Associated  Press,"  suggested  Landry.  "  The  office  never  said  a 
word  to  me." 

"  Oh,  the  £  Associated/  They  know  a  lot  always,  don't  they?  " 
jeered  Winston.  "  Yes,  I  rung  'em  up.  They  '  couldn't  confirm  the 
rumor.'  That's  always  the  way.  You  can  spend  half  a  million  a 
year  in  leased  wires  and  special  service  and  subscriptions  to  news 
agencies,  and  you  get  the  first  smell  of  news  like  this  right  here  on 
the  floor.  Remember  that  time  when  the  Northwestern  millers  sold 
a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  barrels  at  one  lick?  The  floor  was 
talking  of  it  three  hours  before  the  news  slips  were  sent  'round,  or  a 
single  wire  was  in.  Suppose  we  had  waited  for  the  Associated  people 
or  the  Commercial  people  then?  " 

"  It's  that  Higgins-pasha  incident,  I'll  bet,"  observed  Rusbridge, 
his  eyes  snapping. 

"  I  heard  something  about  that  this  morning,"  returned  Landry. 
"  But  only  that  it  was " 

"  There!  What  did  I  tell  you?  "  interrupted  Rusbridge.  "  I 
said  it  was  everywhere.  There's  no  smoke  without  some  fire.  And 
I  wouldn't  be  a  bit  surprised  if  we  get  cables  before  noon  that  the 
British  War  Office  had  sent  an  ultimatum." 

And  very  naturally  a  few  minutes  later  Winston,  at  that  time 
standing  on  the  steps  of  the  corn  pit,  heard  from  a  certain  broker, 
who  had  it  from  a  friend  who  had  just  received  a  dispatch  from  some 
one  "  in  the  know,"  that  the  British  Secretary  of  State  for  War  had 
forwarded  an  ultimatum  to  the  Porte,  and  that  diplomatic  relations 
between  Turkey  and  England  were  about  to  be  suspended. 

All  in  a  moment  the  entire  Floor  seemed  to  be  talking  of  nothing 
else,  and  on  the  outskirts  of  every  group  one  could  overhear  the 
words:  "  Seizure  of  custom  house,"  "  ultimatum,"  "  Eastern  ques- 
tion," "  Higgins-pasha  incident."  It  was  the  rumor  of  the  day,  and 
before  very  long  the  pit  traders  began  to  receive  a  multitude  of  dis- 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  99 

patches  countermanding  selling  orders,  and  directing  them  not  to 
close  out  trades  under  certain  very  advanced  quotations.  The 
brokers  began  wiring  their  principals  that  the  market  promised  to 
open  strong  and  bullish. 

But  by  now  it  was  near  to  half-past  nine.  From  the  Western 
Union  desks  the  clicking  of  the  throng  of  instruments  rose  into  the  air 
in  an  incessant  staccato  stridulation.  The  messenger  boys  ran  back 
and  forth  at  top  speed,  dodging  in  and  out  among  the  knots  of  clerks 
and  traders,  colliding  with  one  another,  and  without  interruption  in- 
toning the  names  of  those  for  whom  they  had  dispatches.  The  throng 
of  traders  concentrated  upon  the  pits,  and  at  every  moment  the 
deep-toned  hum  of  the  murmur  of  many  voices  swelled  like  the 
rising  of  a  tide. 

And  at  this  moment,  as  Landry  stood  on  the  rim  of  the  wheat 
pit,  looking  towards  the  telephone  booth  under  the  visitors'  gallery, 
he  saw  the  osseous,  stoop-shouldered  figure  of  Mr.  Cressler — who, 
though  he  never  speculated,  appeared  regularly  upon  the  Board 
every  morning — making  his  way  towards  one  of  the  windows  in  the 
front  of  the  building.  His  pocket  was  full  of  wheat,  taken  from  a  bag 
on  one  of  the  sample  tables.  Opening  the  window,  he  scattered  the 
grain  upon  the  sill,  and  stood  for  a  long  moment  absorbed  and  inter- 
ested in  the  dazzling  flutter  of  the  wings  of  innumerable  pigeons  who 
came  to  settle  upon  the  ledge,  pecking  the  grain  with  little,  nervous, 
fastidious  taps  of  their  yellow  beaks. 

Landry  cast  a  glance  at  the  clock  beneath  the  dial  on  the  wall 
behind  him.  It  was  twenty-five  minutes  after  nine.  He  stood  in  his 
accustomed  place  on  the  north  side  of  the  Wheat  Pit,  upon  the  top- 
most stair.  The  Pit  was  full.  Below  him  and  on  either  side  of  him 
were  the  brokers,  scalpers,  and  traders — Hirsch,  Semple,  Kelly,  Win- 
ston, and  Rusbridge.  The  redoubtable  Leaycraft,  who,  bidding  for 
himself,  was  supposed  to  hold  the  longest  line  of  May  wheat  of 
any  one  man  in  the  Pit,  the  insignificant  Grossmann,  to  whose  out- 
cries no  one  ever  paid  the  least  attention.  Fairchild,  Paterson,  and 
Goodlock,  the  inseparable  trio  who  represented  the  Porteous  gang, 
silent  men,  middle-aged,  who  had  but  to  speak  in  order  to  buy  or 
sell  a  million  bushels  on  the  spot.  And  others,  and  still  others, 
veterans  of  sixty-five,  recruits  just  out  of  their  teens,  men  who — 
some  of  them — in  the  past  had  for  a  moment  dominated  the  entire 
Pit,  but  who  now  were  content  to  play  the  part  of  "  eighth-chasers," 


100  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

buying  and  selling  on  the  same  day,  content  with  a  profit  of  ten 
dollars.  Others  who  might  at  that  very  moment  be  nursing  plans 
which  in  a  week's  time  would  make  them  millionaires;  still  others 
who,  under  a  mask  of  nonchalance,  strove  to  hide  the  chagrin  of 
yesterday's  defeat.  And  they  were  there,  ready,  inordinately  alert, 
ears  turned  to  the  faintest  sound,  eyes  searching  for  the  vaguest 
trace  of  meaning  in  those  of  their  rivals,  nervous,  keyed  to  the  high- 
est tension,  ready  to  thrust  deep  into  the  slightest  opening,  to  spring, 
mercilessly,  upon  the  smallest  undefended  spot.  Grossmann  perspired 
in  the  stress  of  the  suspense,  all  but  powerless  to  maintain  silence 
till  the  signal  should  be  given,  drawing  trembling  fingers  across  his 
mouth.  Winston,  brawny,  solid,  unperturbed,  his  hands  behind  his 
back,  waited  immovably  planted  on  his  feet  with  all  the  gravity  of 
a  statue,  his  eyes  preternaturally  watchful,  keeping  Kelly — whom  he 
had  divined  had  some  "  funny  business  "  on  hand — perpetually  in 
sight.  The  Porteous  trio — Fairchild,  Paterson,  and  Goodlock — as  if 
unalarmed,  unassailable,  all  but  turned  their  backs  to  the  Pit,  laugh- 
ing among  themselves. 

The  official  reporter  climbed  to  his  perch  in  the  little  cage  on  the 
edge  of  the  Pit,  shutting  the  door  after  him.  By  now  the  chanting 
of  the  messenger  boys  was  an  uninterrupted  chorus.  From  all  sides 
of  the  building  and  in  every  direction  they  crossed  and  recrossed 
each  other,  always  running,  their  hands  full  of  yellow  envelopes. 
From  the  telephone  alcoves  came  the  prolonged,  musical  rasp  of  the 
call  bells.  In  the  Western  Union  booths  the  keys  of  the  multitude  of 
instruments  raged  incessantly.  Bare-headed  young  men  hurried  up 
to  one  another,  conferred  an  instant  comparing  dispatches,  then 
separated,  darting  away  at  top  speed.  Men  called  to  each  other 
half-way  across  the  building.  Over  by  the  bulletin  boards  clerks  and 
agents  made  careful  memoranda  of  primary  receipts,  and  noted  down 
the  amount  of  wheat  on  passage,  the  exports  and  the  imports. 

And  all  these  sounds,  the  chatter  of  the  telegraph,  the  intoning 
of  the  messenger  boys,  the  shouts  and  cries  of  clerks  and  traders, 
the  shuffle  and  trampling  of  hundreds  of  feet,  the  whirring  of  tele- 
phone signals  rose  into  the  troubled  air,  and  mingled  overhead  to 
form  a  vast  note,  prolonged,  sustained,  that  reverberated  from  vault 
to  vault  of  the  airy  roof,  and  issued  from  every  doorway,  every 
opened  window,  in  one  long  roll  of  uninterrupted  thunder.  In  the 
Wheat  Pit  the  bids,  no  longer  obedient  of  restraint,  began  one  by  one 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  101 

to  burst  out,  like  the  first  isolated  shots  of  a  skirmish  line.  Grossmann 
had  flung  out  an  arm  crying: 

"  'Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  an  eighth,"  while 
Kelly  and  Semple  had  almost  simultaneously  shouted,  "  'Give  seven- 
eighths  for  May!  " 

The  official  reporter  had  been  leaning  far  over  to  catch  the  first 
quotations,  one  eye  upon  the  clock  at  the  end  of  the  room.  The  hour 
and  minute  hands  were  at  right  angles. 

Then  suddenly,  cutting  squarely  athwart  the  vague  crescendo 
of  the  floor  came  the  single  incisive  stroke  of  a  great  gong.  Instantly 
a  tumult  was  unchained.  Arms  were  flung  upward  in  strenuous 
gestures,  and  from  above  the  crowding  heads  in  the  Wheat  Pit  a 
multitude  of  hands,  eager,  the  fingers  extended,  leaped  into  the  air. 
All  articulate  expression  was  lost  in  the  single  explosion  of  sound 
as  the  traders  surged  downwards  to  the  center  of  the  Pit,  grabbing 
each  other,  struggling  towards;  each  other,  tramping,  stamping, 
charging  through  with  might  and  main.  Promptly  the  hand  on  the 
great  dial  above  the  clock  stirred  and  trembled,  and  as  though  driven 
by  the  tempest  breath  of  the  Pit  moved  upward  through  the  degrees  of 
its  circle.  It  paused,  wavered,  stopped  at  length,  and  on  the  instant 
the  hundreds  of  telegraph  keys  scattered  throughout  the  building 
began  clicking  off  the  news  to  the  whole  country,  from  the  Atlantic 
to  the  Pacific  and  from  Mackinac  to  Mexico,  that  the  Chicago  market 
had  made  a  slight  advance  and  that  May  wheat,  which  had  closed  the 
day  before  at  ninety-three  and  three-eighths,  had  opened  that  morning 
at  ninety-four  and  a  half. 

But  the  advance  brought  out  no  profit-taking  sales.  The  redoubt- 
able Leaycraft  and  the  Porteous  trio,  Fairchild,  Paterson,  and  Good- 
lock,  shook  their  heads  when  the  Pit  offered  ninety-four  for  parts  of 
their  holdings.  The  price  held  firm.  Goodlock  even  began  to  offer 
ninety-four.  At  every  suspicion  of  a  flurry  Grossmann,  always  with 
the  same  gesture  as  though  hurling  a  javelin,  always  with  the  same 
lamentable  wail  of  distress,  cried  out: 

"  'Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  a  fourth." 

He  held  his  five  fingers  spread  to  indicate  the  number  of  "  con- 
tracts," or  lots  of  five  thousand  bushels,  which  he  wished  to  sell, 
each  finger  representing  one  "  contract." 

And  it  was  at  this  moment  that  selling  orders  began  suddenly  to 
pour  in  upon  the  Gretry-Converse  traders.  Even  other  houses — 


102  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Teller  and  West,  Burbank  &  Co.,  Mattieson  and  Knight — received 
their  share.  The  movement  was  inexplicable,  puzzling.  With  a 
powerful  Bull  clique  dominating  the  trading  and  every  prospect  of 
a  strong  market,  who  was  it  who  ventured  to  sell  short? 

Landry  among  others  found  himself  commissioned  to  sell.  His 
orders  were  to  unload  three  hundred  thousand  bushels  on  any  advance 
over  and  above  ninety-four.  He  kept  his  eye  on  Leaycraft,  certain 
that  he  would  force  up  the  figure,  But,  as  it  happened,  it  was  not 
Leaycraft  but  the  Porteous  trio  who  made  the  advance.  Standing 
in  the  center  of  the  Pit,  Paterson  suddenly  flung  up  his  hand  and 
drew  it  towards  him,  clutching  the  air — the  conventional  gesture 
of  the  buyer. 

"  'Give  an  eighth  for  May." 

Landry  was  at  him  in  a  second.  Twenty  voices  shouted  "  sold," 
and  as  many  traders  sprang  towards  him  with  outstretched  arms. 
Landry,  however,  was  before  them,  and  his  rush  carried  Paterson 
half-way  across  the  middle  space  of  the  Pit. 

"  Sold,  sold." 

Paterson  nodded,  and  as  Landry  noted  down  the  transaction  the 
hand  on  the  dial  advanced  again,  and  again  held  firm. 

But  after  this  the  activity  of  the  Pit  fell  away.  The  trading 
languished.  By  degrees  the  tension  of  the  opening  was  relaxed. 
Landry,  however,  had  refrained  from  selling  more  than  ten  "  con- 
tracts "  to  Paterson.  He  had  a  feeling  that  another  advance  would 
come  later  on.  Rapidly  he  made  his  plans.  He  would  sell  another 
fifty  thousand  bushels  if  the  price  went  to  ninety-four  and  a  half,  and 
would  then  "  feel "  the  market,  letting  go  small  lots  here  and  there, 
to  test  its  strength,  then,  the  instant  he  felt  the  market  strong  enough, 
throw  a  full  hundred  thousand  upon  it  with  a  rush  before  it  had 
time  to  break.  He  could  feel— almost  at  his  very  finger  tips— how  this 
market  moved,  how  it  strengthened,  how  it  weakened.  He  knew  just 
when  to  nurse  it,  to  humor  it,  to  let  it  settle,  and  when  to  crowd  it, 
when  to  hustle  it,  when  it  would  stand  rough  handling. 

Grossmann  still  uttered  his  plaint  from  time  to  time,  but  no  one 
so  much  as  pretended  to  listen.  The  Porteous  trio  and  Leaycraft 
kept  the  price  steady  at  ninety-four  and  an  eighth,  but  showed  no 
inclination  to  force  it  higher.  For  a  full  five  minutes  not  a  trade  was 
reported.  The  Pit  waited  for  the  Report  on  the  Visible  Supply. 

And  it  was  during  this  lull  in  the  morning's  business  that  the 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  103 

idiocy  of  the  English  ultimatum  to  the  Porte  melted  away.  As  inex- 
plicably and  as  suddenly  as  the  rumor  had  started,  it  now  disap- 
pered.  Everyone,  simultaneously,  seemed  to  ridicule  it.  England 
declare  war  on  Turkey!  Where  was  the  joke?  Who  was  the  fool 
to  have  started  that  old,  worn-out  war  scare?  But,  for  all  that,  there 
was  no  reaction  from  the  advance.  It  seemed  to  be  understood  that 
either  Leaycraft  or  the  Porteous  crowd  stood  ready  to  support  the 
market;  and  in  place  of  the  ultimatum  story  a  feeling  began  to  gain 
ground  that  the  expected  report  would  indicate  a  falling  off  in  the 
"  visible,"  and  that  it  was  quite  on  the  cards  that  the  market  might 
even  advance  another  point. 

As  the  interest  in  the  immediate  situation  declined,  the  crowd 
in  the  Pit  grew  less  dense.  Portions  of  it  were  deserted;  even  Gross- 
mann,  discouraged,  retired  to  a  bench  under  the  visitors'  gallery. 
And  a  spirit  of  horse-play,  sheer  foolishness,  strangely  inconsistent 
with  the  hot-eyed  excitement  of  the  few  moments  after  the  opening, 
invaded  the  remaining  groups.  Leaycraft,  the  formidable,  as  well  as 
Paterson  of  the  Porteous  gang,  and  even  the  solemn  Winston,  found 
an  apparently  inexhaustible  diversion  in  folding  their  telegrams  into 
pointed  javelins  and  sending  them  sailing  across  the  room,  watch- 
ing the  course  of  the  missiles  with  profound  gravity.  A  visitor  in  the 
gallery — no  doubt  a  Western,  farmer  on  a  holiday — having  put  his 
feet  upon  the  rail,  the  entire  Pit  began  to  groan  "  boots,  boots,  boots." 

A  little  later  a  certain  broker  came  scurrying  across  the  floor 
from  the  direction  of  the  telephone  room.  Panting,  he  flung  himself 
up  the  steps  of  the  Pit,  forced  his  way  among  the  traders  with  vig- 
orous workings  of  his  elbows  and  shouted  a  bid. 

"  He's  sick,"  shouted  Hirsch.  "  Look  out,  he's  sick.  He's  going 
to  have  a  fit."  He  grabbed  the  broker  by  both  arms  and  hustled 
him  into  the  center  of  the  Pit.  The  others  caught  up  the  cry,  a  score 
of  hands  pushed  the  new-comer  from  man.  to  man.  The  pit  traders 
clutched  him,  pulled  his  necktie  loose,  knocked  off  his  hat,  vociferating 
all  the  while  at  top  voice,  "  He's  sick!  He's  sick!  " 

Other  brokers  and  traders  came  up,  and  Grossmann,  mistaking 
the  commotion  for  a  flurry,  ran  into  the  Pit,  his  eyes  wide,  waving 
his  arm  and  wailing: 

"  'Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and  a  quarter." 

But  the  victim,  good-natured,  readjusted  his  battered  hat,  and 
again  repeated  his  bid. 


104  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Ah,  go  to  bed,"  protested  Hirsch. 

"  He's  the  man  who  struck  Billy  Paterson." 

"  Say,  a  horse  bit  him.  Look  out  for  him,  he's  going  to  have 
a  duck-fit." 

The  incident  appeared  to  be  the  inspiration  for  a  new  "  josh  " 
that  had  a  great  success,  and  a  group  of  traders  organized  themselves 
into  an  "  anti-cravat  committee,"  and  made  the  rounds  of  the  Pit, 
twitching  the  carefully  tied  scarfs  of  the  unwary  out  of  place.  Gross- 
mann,  indignant  at  "  t'ose  monkey-doodle  pizeness,"  withdrew  from 
the  center  of  the  Pit.  But  while  he  stood  in  front  of  Leaycraft,  his 
back  turned,  muttering  his  disgust,  the  latter,  while  carrying  on  a 
grave  conversation  with  his  neighbor,  carefully  stuck  a  file  of  paper 
javelins  all  around  the  Jew's  hat  band,  and  then — still  without  mirth 
and  still  continuing  to  talk — set  them  on  fire. 

Landry  imagined  by  now  that  ninety-four  and  an  eighth  was  as 
high  a  figure  as  he  could  reasonably  expect  that  morning,  and  so 
began  to  "  work  off  "  his  selling  orders.  Little  by  little  he  sold  the 
wheat  "  short,"  till  all  but  one  large  lot  was  gone. 

Then  all  at  once,  and  for  no  discoverable  immediate  reason, 
wheat,  amid  an  explosion  of  shouts  and  vociferations,  jumped  to 
ninety-four  and  a  quarter,  and  before  the  Pit  could  take  breath,  had 
advanced  another  eighth,  broken  to  one-quarter,  then  jumped  to  the 
five-eighths  mark. 

It  was  the  Report  on  the  Visible  Supply  beyond  question,  and 
though  it  had  not  yet  been  posted,  this  sudden  flurry  was  a  sign  that  it 
was  not  only  near  at  hand,  but  would  be  bullish. 

A  few  moments  later  it  was  bulletined  in  the  gallery  beneath  the 
dial,  and  proved  a  tremendous  surprise  to  nearly  every  man  upon  the 
floor.  No  one  had  imagined  the  supply  was  so  ample,  so  all-sufficient 
to  meet  the  demand.  Promptly  the  Pit  responded.  Wheat  began  to 
pour  in  heavily.  Hirsch,  Kelly,  Grossmann,  Leaycraft,  the  stolid 
Winston,  and  the  excitable  Rusbridge  were  hard  at  it.  The  price 
began  to  give.  Suddenly  it  broke  sharply.  The  hand  on  the  great 
dial  dropped  to  ninety-three  and  seven-eighths. 

Landry  was  beside  himself.  He  had  not  foreseen  this  break. 
There  was  no  reckoning  on  that  cursed  "  visible,"  and  he  still  had 
50,000  bushels  to  dispose  of.  There  was  no  telling  now  how  low  the 
price  might  sink.  He  must  act  quickly,  radically.  He  fought  his 
way  towards  the  Porteous  crowd,  reached  over  the  shoulder  of  the 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  105 

little  Jew  Grossmann,  who  stood  in  his  way,  and  thrust  his  hand 
almost  into  Paterson's  face,  shouting: 
"  'Sell  fifty  May  at  seven-eighths." 

It  was  the  last  one  of  his  unaccountable  selling  orders  of  the 
early  morning. 

The  other  shook  his  head. 

"  'Sell  fifty  May  at  three-quarters." 

Suddenly  some  instinct  warned  Landry  that  another  break  was 
coming.  It  was  in  the  very  air  around  him.  He  could  almost  physi- 
cally feel  the  pressure  of  renewed  avalanches  of  wheat  crowding  down 
the  price.  Desperate,  he  grabbed  Paterson  by  the  shoulder. 

"  'Sell  fifty  May  at  five-eighths." 

"  Take  it,"  vociferated  the  other,  as  though  answering  a  challenge. 

And  in  the  heart  of  this  confusion,  in  this  downward  rush  of  the 
price,  Luck,  the  golden  goddess,  passed  with  the  flirt  and  flash  of 
glittering  wings,  and  hardly  before  the  ticker  in  Gretry's  office  had 
signalled  the  decline,  the  memorandum  of  the  trade  was  down  upon 
Landry's  card  and  Curtis  Jadwin  stood  pledged  to  deliver,  before 
noon  on  the  last  day  of  May,  one  million  bushels  of  wheat  into  the 
hands  of  the  representatives  of  the  great  Bulls  of  the  Board  of  Trade. 

But  by  now  the  real  business  of  the  morning  was  over.  The  Pit 
knew  it.  Grossmann,  obstinate,  hypnotized  as  it  were  by  one  idea, 
still  stood  in  his  accustomed  place  on  the  upper  edge  of  the  Pit, 
and  from  time  to  time,  with  the  same  despairing  gesture,  emitted 
his  doleful  outcry  of  "  'Sell  twenty-five  May  at  ninety-five  and 
three-quarters." 

Nobody  listened.  The  traders  stood  around  in  expectant  atti- 
tudes, looking  into  one  another's  faces,  waiting  for  what  they  could 
not  exactly  say;  loath  to  leave  the  Pit  lest  something  should  "  turn 
up  "  the  moment  their  backs  were  turned. 

By  degrees  the  clamor  died  away,  ceased,  began  again  irregularly, 
then  abruptly  stilled.  Here  and  there  a  bid  was  called,  an  offer  made, 
like  the  intermittent  crack  of  small  arms  after  the  stopping  of 
the  cannonade. 

"  'Sell  five  May  at  one-eighth." 

"  'Sell  twenty  at  one-quarter." 

"  'Give  one-eighth  for  May." 

For  an  instant  the  shoutings  were  renewed.  Then  suddenly  the 
gong  struck.  The  traders  began  slowly  to  leave  the  Pit.  One  of  the 


106  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

floor  officers,  an  old  fellow  in  uniform  and  vizored  cap,  appeared, 
gently  shouldering  towards  the  door  the  groups  wherein  the  bidding 
and  offering  were  still  languidly  going  on.  His  voice  full  of  remon- 
stration,  he  repeated  continually: 

"  Time's  up,  gentlemen.  Go  on  now  and  get  your  lunch.  Lunch 
time  now.  Go  on  now,  or  I'll  have  to  report  you.  Time's  up." 

The  tide  set  towards  the  doorways.  In  the  gallery  the  few  visitors 
rose,  putting  on  coats  and  wraps.  Over  by  the  check  counter,  to 
the  right  of  the  south  entrance  to  the  floor,  a  throng  of  brokers  and 
traders  jostled  each  other,  reaching  over  one  another's  shoulders  for 
hats  and  ulsters.  In  steadily  increasing  numbers  they  poured  out 
of  the  north  and  south  entrances,  on  their  way  to  turn  in  their 
trading  cards  to  the  offices. 

Little  by  little  the  floor  emptied.  The  provision  and  grain  pits 
were  deserted,  and  as  the  clamor  of  the  place  lapsed  away  the  tele- 
graph instruments  began  to  make  themselves  heard  once  more,  to- 
gether with  the  chanting  of  the  messenger  boys. 

Swept  clean  in  the  morning,  the  floor  itself,  seen  now  through 
the  thinning  groups,  was  littered  from  end  to  end  with  scattered 
grain — oats,  wheat,  corn,  and  barley,  with  wisps  of  hay,  peanut 
shells,  apple  parings,  and  orange  peel,  with  torn  newspapers,  odds  and 
ends  of  memoranda,  crushed  paper  darts,  and  above  all  with  a  count- 
less multitude  of  yellow  telegraph  forms,  thousands  upon  thousands, 
crumpled  and  muddied  under  the  trampling  of  innumerable  feet.  It 
was  the  debris  of  the  battle-field,  the  abandoned  impedimenta  and 
broken  weapons  of  contending  armies,  the  detritus  of  conflict,  torn, 
broken,  and  rent,  that  at  the  end  of  each  day's  combat  encum- 
bered the  field. 

At  last  even  the  click  of  the  last  of  the  telegraph  keys  died  down. 
Shouldering  themselves  into  their  overcoats,  the  operators  departed, 
calling  back  and  forth  to  one  another,  making  "  dates,"  and  cracking 
jokes.  Washerwomen  appeared  with  steaming  pails,  porters  pushing 
great  brooms  before  them  began  gathering  the  refuse  of  the  floor 
into  heaps. 

Between  the  wheat  and  corn  pits  a  band  of  young  fellows,  some 
of  them  absolute  boys,  appeared.  These  were  the  settlement  clerks. 
They  carried  long  account  books.  It  was  their  duty  to  get  the  trades 
of  the  day  into  a  "  ring  " — to  trace  the  course  of  a  lot  of  wheat  which 
had  changed  hands  perhaps  a  score  of  times  during  the  trading — and 


THE  WHEAT  PIT  107 

their  calls  of  "  Wheat  sold  to  Teller  and  West,"  "  May  wheat  sold 
to  Burbank  &  Co.,"  "  May  oats  sold  to  Matthewson  and  Knight," 
"  Wheat  sold  to  Gretry,  Converse  &  Co.,"  began  to  echo  from  wall 
to  wall  of  the  almost  deserted  room. 

A  cat,  grey  and  striped,  and  wearing  a  dog-collar  of  nickel  and 
red  leather,  issued  from  the  coat-room  and  picked  her  way  across 
the  floor.  Evidently  she  was  in  a  mood  of  the  most  ingratiating  friend- 
liness, and  as  one  after  another  of  the  departing  traders  spoke  to  her, 
raised  her  tail  in  the  air  and  arched  her  back  against  the  legs  of  the 
empty  chairs.  The  janitor  put  in  an  appearance,  lowering  the  tall  col- 
ored windows  with  a  long  rod.  A  noise  of  hammering  and  the  scrape 
of  saws  began  to  issue  from  a  corner  where  a  couple  of  carpenters 
tinkered  about  one  of  the  sample  tables. 

Then  at  last  even  the  settlement  clerks  took  themselves  off.  At 
once  there  was  a  great  silence,  broken  only  by  the  harsh  rasp  of  the 
carpenters*  saws  and  the  voice  of  the  janitor  exchanging  jokes  with 
the  washerwomen.  The  sound  of  footsteps  in  distant  quarters 
re-echoed  as  if  in  a  church. 

The  washerwomen  invaded  the  floor,  spreading  soapy  and  steam- 
ing water  before  them.  Over  by  the  sample  tables  a  negro  porter  in 
shirt-sleeves  swept  entire  bushels  of  spilled  wheat,  crushed,  broken, 
and  sodden,  into  his  dust  pans. 

The  day's  campaign  was  over.  It  was  past  two  o'clock.  On  the 
great  dial  against  the  eastern  wall  the  indicator  stood — sentinel  fash- 
ion— at  ninety-three.  Not  till  the  following  morning  would  the  whirl- 
pool, the  great  central  force  that  spun  the  Niagara  of  wheat  in  its 
grip,  thunder  and  bellow  again. 

Later  on  even  the  washerwomen,  even  the  porter  and  janitor, 
departed.  An  unbroken  silence,  the  peacefulness  of  an  untroubled 
calm,  settled  over  the  place.  The  rays  of  the  afternoon  sun  flooded 
through  the  west  windows  in  long  parallel  shafts  full  of  floating  golden 
motes.  There  was  no  sound;  nothing  stirred.  The  floor  of  the  Board 
of  Trade  was  deserted.  Alone,  on  the  edge  of  the  abandoned  Wheat 
Pit,  in  a  spot  where  the  sunlight  fell  warmest — an  atom  of  life,  lost 
in  the  immensity  of  the  empty  floor — the  grey  cat  made  her  toilet, 
diligently  licking  the  fur  on  the  inside  of  her  thigh,  one  leg,  as  if  dis- 
located, thrust  into  the  air  above  her  head. 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM 

AN  ADVERTISING  EXPERIENCE  OF  JOCK  McCHESNEY 

By  EDNA  FERBER 

THEY  used  to  do  it  much  more  picturesquely.  They  rode  in  coats 
of  scarlet,  in  the  crisp,  clear  morning,  to  the  winding  of  horns  and 
the  baying  of  hounds — to  the  thud-thud  of  hoofs,  and  the  crackle 
of  underbrush.  Across  fresh-plowed  fields  they  went,  crashing  through 
forest  paths,  leaping  ditches,  taking  fences,  scrambling  up  the  inclines, 
pelting  down  the  hillside,  helter-skelter,  until,  panting,  wide-eyed, 
eager,  blood-hungry,  the  hunt  closed  in  at  the  death. 

The  scarlet  coat  has  sobered  down  to  the  somber  gray  and  the 
snuffy  brown  of  the  unromantic  garment  known  as  the  business  suit. 
The  winding  horn  is  become  a  goblet,  and  its  notes  are  the  tinkle  of 
ice  against  glass.  The  baying  of  hounds  has  harshened  to  the  squawk 
of  the  motor  siren.  The  fresh  plowed  field  is  a  blue  print,  the  forest 
maze  a  roll  of  plans  and  specifications.  Each  fence  is  a  business  bar- 
rier. Every  ditch  is  of  a  competitor's  making,  dug  craftily  so  that  the 
clumsy-footed  may  come  a  cropper.  All  the  romance  is  out  of  it,  all 
the  color,  all  the  joy.  But  two  things  remain  the  same:  The  look 
in  the  face  of  the  hunter  as  he  closed  in  on  the  fox  is  the  look  in  the 
face  of  him  who  sees  the  coveted  contract  lying  ready  for  the  finishing 
stroke  of  his  pen.  And  his  words  are  those  of  the  hunter  of  long  ago 
as,  eyes  agleam,  teeth  bared,  muscles  still  taut  with  the  tenseness  of 
the  chase,  he  waves  the  paper  high  in  air  and  cries,  "  I've 
made  a  killing!  " 

For  two  years  Jock  McChesney  had  watched  the  field  as  it  swept 
by  in  its  patient,  devious,  cruel  game  of  Hunt  the  Contract.  But  he 
had  never  been  in  at  the  death.  Those  two  years  had  taught  him  how 
to  ride;  to  take  a  fence;  to  leap  a  ditch.  He  had  had  his  awkward 
bumps,  and  his  clumsy  falls.  He  had  lost  his  way  more  than  once. 
But  he  had  always  groped  his  way  back  again,  stumblingly,  through 
the  dusk.  Jock  McChesney  was  the  youngest  man  on  the  Berg, 
Shriner  Advertising  Company's  big  staff  of  surprisingly  young  men. 
So  young  that  the  casual  glance  did  not  reveal  to  you  the  marks 
108 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  109 

that  the  strain  of  those  two  years  had  left  on  his  boyish  face.  But 
the  marks  were  there. 

Nature  etches  with  the  most  delicate  of  points.  She  knows  the 
cunning  secret  of  light  and  shadow.  You  scarcely  realize  that  she 
has  been  at  work.  A  faint  line  about  the  mouth,  a  fairy  tracing  at  the 
corners  of  the  eyes,  a  mere  vague  touch  just  at  the  nostrils — and  the 
thing  is  done. 

Even  Emma  McChesney's  eyes — those  mother-eyes  which  make 
the  lynx  seem  a  mole — had  failed  to  note  the  subtle  change.  Then, 
suddenly,  one  night,  the  lines  leaped  out  at  her. 

They  were  seated  at  opposite  sides  of  the  book-littered  library 
table  in  the  living-room  of  the  cheerful  up-town  apartment  which 
was  the  realization  of  the  nightly  dream  which  Mrs.  Emma  McChes- 
ney  had  had  in  her  ten  years  on  the  road  for  the  T.  A.  Buck  Feather- 
loom  Petticoat  Company.  Jock  McChesney's  side  of  the  big  table 
was  completely  covered  with  the  mass  of  copy-paper,  rough  sketches, 
photographs  and  drawings  that  make  up  an  advertising  lay-out.  He 
was  bent  over  the  work,  absorbed,  intent,  his  forearms  resting  on  the 
table.  Emma  McChesney  glanced  up  from  her  magazine  just  as  Jock 
bent  forward  to  reach  a  scrap  of  paper  that  had  fluttered  across  the 
way.  The  lamplight  fell  full  on  his  face.  And  Emma  McChesney 
saw.  The  hand  that  held  the  magazine  fell  to  her  lap.  Her  lips 
were  parted  slightly.  She  sat  very  quietly,  her  eyes  never  leaving 
the  face  that  frowned  so  intently  over  the  littered  table.  The  room 
had  been  very  quiet  before — Jock  busy  with  his  work,  his  mother 
interested  in  her  magazine.  But  this  silence  was  different.  There  was 
something  electric  in  it.  It  was  a  silence  that  beats  on  the  brain  like 
a  noise.  Jock  McChesney,  bent  over  his  work,  heard  it,  felt  it,  and, 
oppressed  by  it,  looked  up  suddenly.  He  met  those  two  eyes  opposite. 

"  Spooks?  Or  is  it  my  godlike  beauty  which  holds  you  thus? 
Or  is  my  face  dirty?  " 

Emma  McChesney  did  not  smile.  She  laid  her  magazine  on 
the  table,  face  down,  and  leaned  forward,  her  staring  eyes  still 
fixed  on  her  son's  face. 

"  Look  here,  young  'un.    Are  you  working  too  hard?  " 

"  Me?    Now?    This  stuff  you  mean ?  " 

"No;  I  mean  in  the  last  year.    Are  they  piling  it  up  on  you?  " 

Jock  laughed  a  laugh  that  was  nothing  less  than  a  failure,  so 
little  of  real  mirth  did  it  contain. 


110  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Piling  it  up!  Lord,  no!  I  wish  they  would.  That's  the 
trouble.  They  don't  give  me  a  chance." 

"  A  chance!  Why,  that's  not  true,  son.  You've  said  yourself 
that  there  are  men  who  have  been  in  the  office  three  times  as  long  as 
you  have,  who  never  have  had  the  opportunities  that  they've 
given  you." 

It  was  as  though  she  had  touched  a  current  that  thrilled  him  to 
action.  He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  stood  up,  one  hand  thrust  into 
his  pocket,  the  other  passing  quickly  over  his  head  from  brow  to  nape 
with  a  quick,  nervous  gesture  that  was  new  to  him. 

"  And  why!  "  he  flung  out.  "  Why!  Not  because  they  like  the 
way  I  part  my  hair.  They  don't  do  business  that  way  up  there. 
It's  because  I've  made  good,  and  those  other  dubs  haven't.  That's 
why.  They've  let  me  sit  in  at  the  game.  But  they  won't  let  me  take 
any  tricks.  I've  been  an  apprentice  hand  for  two  years  now.  I'm 
tired  of  it.  I  want  to  be  in  on  a  killing.  I  want  to  taste  blood.  I 
want  a  chance  at  some  of  the  money — real  money." 

Emma  McChesney  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  surveyed  the  angry 
figure  before  her  with  quiet,  steady  eyes. 

"  I  might  have  known  that  only  one  thing  could  bring  those  lines 
into  your  face,  son."  She  paused  a  moment.  "  So  you  want  money 
as  badly  as  all  that,  do  you?  " 

Jock's  hand  came  down  with  a  thwack  on  the  papers  before  him. 

"  Want  it!     You  just  bet  I  want  it." 

"  Do  I  know  her?  "  asked  Emma  McChesney  quietly. 

Jock  stopped  short  in  his  excited  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Do  you  know —  Why,  I  didn't  say  there —  What  makes  you 
think  that ?  " 

"  When  a  youngster  like  you,  whose  greatest  worry  has  been 
whether  Harvard'll  hold  'em  again  this  year,  with  Baxter  out,  begins 
to  howl  about  not  being  appreciated  in  business,  and  to  wear  a  late 
fall  line  of  wrinkles  where  he  has  been  smooth  before,  I  feel  justified 
in  saying, '  Do  I  know  her?  ' 

"  Well,  it  isn't  anyone — at  least,  it  isn't  what  you  mean  you  think 
it  is  when  you  say  you " 

"  Careful  there!  You'll  trip.  Never  you  mind  what  I  mean  I 
think  it  is  when  I  say.  Count  ten,  and  then  just  tell  me  what  you 
think  you  mean." 

Jock  passed  his  hand  over  his  head  again  with  that  nervous  little 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  111 

gesture.  Then  he  sat  down,  a  little  wearily.  He  stared  moodily  down 
at  the  pile  of  papers  before  him.  His  mother  faced  him  quietly 
across  the  table. 

"  Grace  Gait's  getting  twice  as  much  as  I  am,"  Jock  broke  out, 
with  savage  suddenness.  "  The  first  year  I  didn't  mind.  A  fellow 
gets  accustomed,  these  days,  to  seeing  women  breaking  into  all  the 
professions  and  getting  away  with  men-size  salaries.  But  her  pay 
check  doubles  mine — more  than  doubles  it." 

"  It's  been  my  experience,"  observed  Emma  McChesney,  "  that 
when  a  firm  condescends  to  pay  a  woman  twice  as  much  as  a  man, 
that  means  she's  worth  six  times  as  much." 

A  painful  red  crept  into  Jock's  face.  "  Maybe.  Two  years  ago 
that  would  have  sounded  reasonable  to  me.  Two  years  ago,  when  I 
walked  down  Broadway  at  night,  a  fifty-foot  electric  sign  at  Forty- 
second  was  just  an  electric  sign  to  me.  Just  part  of  the  town's 
decoration,  like  the  chorus  girls,  and  the  midnight  theatre  crowds. 
Now — well,  now  every  blink  of  every  red  and  yellow  globe  is  cram- 
med full  of  meaning.  I  know  the  power  that  advertising  has;  how  it 
influences  our  manners,  and  our  morals,  and  our  minds,  and  our 
health.  It  regulates  the  food  we  eat,  and  the  clothes  we  wear,  and 
the  books  we  read,  and  the  entertainment  we  seek.  It's  colossal, 
that's  what  it  is !  It's " 

"  Keep  on  like  that  for  another  two  years,  sonny,  and  no  busi- 
ness banquet  will  be  complete  without  you.  The  next  thing  you 
know  you'll  be  addressing  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  advertising  classes  on  '  The 
Young  Man  in  Business.' " 

Jock  laughed  a  rueful  little  laugh.  "  I  didn't  mean  to  make  a 
speech.  I  was  just  trying  to  say  that  I've  served  my  apprenticeship. 
It  hurts  a  fellow's  pride.  You  can't  hold  your  head  up  before  a  girl 
when  you  know  her  salary's  twice  yours,  and  you  know  that  she 
knows  it.  Why,  look  at  Mrs.  Hoffman,  who's  with  the  Dowd  Agency. 
Of  course  she's  a  wonder,  even  if  her  face  does  look  like  the  fifty- 
eighth  variety.  She  can  write  copy  that  lifts  a  campaign  right  out  of 
the  humdrum  class,  and  makes  it  luminous.  Her  husband  works  in 
a  bank  somewhere.  He  earns  about  as  much  as  Mrs.  Hoffman  pays 
the  least  of  her  department  subordinates.  And  he's  so  subdued  that 
he  side-steps  when  he  walks,  and  they  call  him  the  human  jelly-fish." 

Emma  McChesney  was  regarding  her  son  with  a  little  puzzled 


112  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

frown.     Suddenly  she  reached  out  and  tapped  the  topmost  of  the 
scribbled  sheets  strewn  the  length  of  Jock's  side  of  the  table. 

"  What's  all  this?  " 

Jock  tipped  back  his  chair  and  surveyed  the  clutter  before  him. 

"  That,"  said  he,  "  is  what  is  known  on  the  stage  as  '  the  papers.' 
And  it's  the  real  plot  of  this  piece." 

"M-m-m— I  thought  so.  Just  favor  me  with  a  scenario,  will  you?" 

Half-grinning,  half-serious,  Jock  stuck  his  thumbs  in  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  waistcoat,  and  began. 

"  Scene:  Offices  of  the  Berg,  Shriner  Advertising  Company. 
Time,  the  present.  Characters:  Jock  McChesney,  handsome,  dar- 
ing, brilliant " 

"  Suppose  you — er — skip  the  characters,  however  fascinating,  and 
get  to  the  action." 

Jock  McChesney  brought  the  tipped  chair  down  on  all  fours  with 
a  thud,  and  stood  up.  The  grin  was  gone.  He  was  as  serious  as  he 
had  been  in  the  midst  of  his  tirade  of  five  minutes  before. 

"  All  right.  Here  it  is.  And  don't  blame  me  if  it  sounds  like 
cheap  melodrama.  This  stuff,"  and  he  waved  a  hand  toward  the 
paper-laden  table,  "  is  an  advertising  campaign  plan  for  the  Griebler 
Gum  Company,  of  St.  Louis.  Oh,  don't  look  impressed.  The  office 
hasn't  handed  me  any  such  commission.  I  just  got  the  idea  like  a 
flash,  and  I've  been  working  it  out  for  the  last  two  weeks.  It  worked 
itself  out,  almost — the  way  a  really  scorching  idea  does,  sometimes. 
This  Griebler  has  been  advertising  for  years.  You  know  the  Grieb- 
ler gum.  But  it  hasn't  been  the  right  sort  of  advertising.  Old 
Griebler,  the  original  gum  man,  had  fogy  notions  about  advertising, 
and  as  long  as  he  lived  they  had  to  keep  it  down.  He  died  a  few 
months  ago — you  must  have  read  of  it.  Left  a  regular  mint.  Ben 
Griebler,  the  oldest  son,  started  right  in  to  clean  out  the  cobwebs.  Of 
course,  the  advertising  end  of  it  has  come  in  for  its  share  of  the  soap 
and  water.  He  wants  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  it.  Every  adver- 
tising firm  in  the  country  has  been  angling  for  the  contract.  It's 
going  to  be  a  real  one.  Two-thirds  of  the  crowd  have  submitted 
plans.  And  that's  just  where  my  kick  comes  in.  The  Berg,  Shriner 
Company  makes  it  a  rule  never  to  submit  advance  plans." 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  seem  a  trifle  rude,"  interrupted  Mrs.  McChes- 
ney, "  but  I'd  like  to  know  where  you  think  youVe  been  wronged 
in  this." 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  113 

"  Right  here!  "  replied  Jock,  and  he  slapped  his  pocket,  "  and 
here,"  he  pointed  to  his  head.  "  Two  spots  so  vital  that  they  make 
old  Achilles's  heel  seem  armor-plated.  Ben  Griebler  is  one  of  the 
show-me  kind.  He  wants  value  received  for  money  expended,  and 
while  everybody  knows  that  he  has  a  loving  eye  on  the  Berg,  Shriner 
crowd,  he  won't  sign  a  thing  until  he  knows  what  he's  getting.  A 
firm's  record,  standing,  staff,  equipment,  mean  nothing  to  him." 

"  But,  Jock,  I  still  don't  see- 
Jock  gathered  up  a  sheaf  of  loose  papers  and  brandished  them  in 
the  air.  "  This  is  where  I  come  in.  I've  got  a  plan  here  that  will 
fetch  this  Griebler  person.  Oh,  I'm  not  dreaming.  I  outlined  it  for 
Sam  Hupp,  and  he  was  crazy  about  it.  Sam  Hupp  had  some  sort  of 
plan  outlined  himself.  But  he  said  this  made  his  sound  as  dry  as 
cigars  in  Denver.  And  you  know  yourself  that  Sam  Hupp's 
copy  is  so  brilliant  that  he  could  sell  brewery  advertising  to  a 
temperance  magazine." 

Emma  McChesney  stood  up.  She  looked  a  little  impatient,  and 
a  trifle  puzzled.  "  But  why  all  this  talk!  I  don't  get  you.  Take 
your  plan  to  Mr.  Berg.  If  it's  what  you  think  it  is  he'll  see  it 
quicker  than  any  other  human  being,  and  he'll  probably  fall  on  your 
neck  and  invest  you  in  royal  robes  and  give  you  a  mahogany  desk 
all  your  own." 

"  Oh,  what's  the  good!  "  retorted  Jock  disgustedly.  "  This  Grieb- 
ler has  an  appointment  at  the  office  to-morrow.  He'll  be  closeted 
with  the  Old  Man.  They'll  call  in  Hupp.  But  never  a  plan  will 
they  reveal.  It's  against  their  code  of  ethics.  Ethics!  I'm  sick  of 
the  word.  I  suppose  you'd  say  I'm  lucky  to  be  associated  with  a  firm 
like  that,  and  perhaps  I  am.  But  I  wish  in  the  name  of  all  the  gods 
of  Business  that  they  weren't  so  bloomin'  conservative.  Ethics! 
They're  all  balled  up  in  'em  like  Henry  James  in  his  style." 

Emma  McChesney  came  over  from  her  side  of  the  table  and  stood 
very  close  to  her  son.  She  laid  one  hand  very  lightly  on  his  arm  and 
looked  up  into  the  sullen,  angry  young  face. 

"  I've  seen  older  men  than  you  are,  Jock,  and  better  men,  and 
bigger  men,  wearing  that  same  look,  and  for  the  same  reason.  Every 
ambitious  man  or  woman  in  business  wears  it  at  one  time  or  another. 
Sooner  or  later,  Jock,  you'll  have  your  chance  at  the  money  end  of 
this  game.  If  you  don't  care  about  the  thing  you  call  ethics,  it'll  be 
S 


114  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

sooner.  If  you  do  care,  it  will  be  later.  It  rests  with  you,  but  it's 
bound  to  come,  because  you've  got  the  stuff  in  you." 

"  Maybe,"  replied  Jock  the  cynical.  But  his  face  lost  some  of 
it's  sullenness  as  he  looked  down  at  that  earnest,  vivid  countenance 
upturned  to  his.  "  Maybe.  It  sounds  all  right,  Mother — in  the  story 
books.  But  I'm  not  quite  sold  on  it.  These  days  it  isn't  so  much 
what  you've  got  in  you  that  counts  as  what  you  can  bring  out.  I 
know  the  young  man's  slogan  used  to  be  '  Work  and  Wait/  or  some- 
thing pretty  like  that.  But  these  days  they've  boiled  it  down  to  one 
word—'  Produce'!  " 

"  The  marvel  of  it  is  that  there  aren't  more  of  'em,"  observed 
Emma  McChesney  sadly. 

"  More  what?  " 

"  More  lines.  Here," — she  touched  his  forehead — "  and  here," 
— she  touched  his  eyes. 

"  Lines!  "  Jock  swung  to  face  a  mirror.  "  Good!  I'm  so  infer- 
nally young-looking  that  no  one  takes  me  seriously.  It's  darned  hard 
trying  to  convince  people  you're  a  captain  of  finance  when  you  look 
like  an  errand  boy." 

From  the  center  of  the  room  Mrs.  McChesney  watched  the  boy 
as  he  surveyed  himself  in  the  glass.  And  as  she  gazed  there  came  a 
frightened  look  into  her  eyes.  It  was  gone  in  a  minute,  and  in  its 
place  came  a  curious  little  gleam,  half  amused,  half  pugnacious. 

"  Jock  McChesney,  if  I  thought  that  you  meant  half  of  what 
you've  said  to-night  about  honor,  and  ethics,  and  all  that,  I'd — 

"  Spank  me,  I  suppose,"  said  the  young  six-footer. 

"  No,"  and  all  the  humor  had  fled,  "  I — Jock,  I've  never  said 
much  to  you  about  your  father.  But  I  think  you  know  that  he  was 
what  he  was  to  the  day  of  his  death.  You  were  just  about  eight 
when  I  made  up  my  mind  that  life  with  him  was  impossible.  I  said 
then — and  you  were  all  I  had,  son — that  I'd  rather  see  you  dead  than 
to  have  you  turn  out  to  be  a  son  of  your  father.  Don't  make  me 
remember  that  wish,  Jock." 

Two  quick  steps  and  his  arms  were  about  her.  His  face  was  all 
contrition.  "  Why— Mother!  I  didn't  mean—  You  see,  this  is 
business,  and  I'm  crazy  to  make  good,  and  it's  such  a  fight— 

"  Don't  I  know  it?  "  demanded  Emma  McChesney.  "  I  guess 
your  mother  hasn't  been  sitting  home  embroidering  lunch-cloths  these 
last  fifteen  years."  She  lifted  her  head  from  the  boy's  shoulder. 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  115 

"  And  now,  son,  considering  me,  not  as  your  doting  mother,  but  in  my 
business  capacity  as  secretary  of  the  T.  A.  Buck  Featherloom  Petti- 
coat Company,  suppose  you  reveal  to  me  the  inner  workings  of  this 
plan  of  yours.  I'd  like  to  know  if  you  really  are  the  advertising 
wizard  that  you  think  you  are." 

So  it  was  that  long  after  Annie's  dinner  dishes  had  ceased  to 
clatter  in  the  kitchen;  long  after  she  had  put  her  head  in  at  the  door 
to  ask,  "  Aigs  'r  cakes  for  breakfast?  "  long  after  those  two  busy 
brains  should  have  rested  in  sleep,  the  two  sat  at  either  side  of  the 
light-flooded  table,  the  face  of  one  glowing  as  he  talked,  the  face  of 
the  other  sparkling  as  she  listened.  And  at  midnight: 

"  Why,  you  infant  wonder!  "  exclaimed  Emma  McChesney. 

At  nine  o'clock  next  morning  when  Jock  McChesney  entered  the 
offices  of  the  Berg,  Shriner  Advertising  Company  he  carried  a  flat, 
compact  bundle  of  papers  under  his  arm  encased  in  protecting  covers 
of  pasteboard,  and  further  secured  by  bands  of  elastic.  This  he 
carried  to  his  desk,  deposited  in  a  drawer,  and  locked  the  drawer. 

By  eleven  o'clock  the  things  which  he  had  predicted  the  night 
before  had  come  to  pass.  A  plump  little  man,  with  a  fussy  manner 
and  Western  clothes,  had  been  ushered  into  Bartholomew  Berg's  pri- 
vate office.  Instinct  told  him  that  this  was  Griebler.  Jock  left  his 
desk  and  strolled  up  to  get  the  switchboard  operator's  confirmation  of 
his  guess.  Half  an  hour  later  Sam  Hupp  hustled  by  and  disappeared 
into  the  Old  Man's  sanctum. 

Jock  fingered  the  upper  left-hand  drawer  of  his  desk.  The  mad- 
dening blankness  of  that  closed  door!  If  only  he  could  find  some 
excuse  for  walking  into  that  room — any  old  excuse,  no  matter  how 
wild! — just  to  get  a  chance  at  it 

His  telephone  rang.  He  picked  up  the  receiver,  his  eye  on  the 
closed  door,  his  thoughts  inside  that  room. 

"  Mr.  Berg  wants  to  see  you  right  away/'  came  the  voice  of  the 
switchboard  operator. 

Something  seemed  to  give  way  inside — something  in  the  region  of 
his  brain — no,  has  heart — no,  his  lungs 

"  Well,  can  you  beat  that!  "  said  Jock  McChesney  aloud,  in  a 
kind  of  trance  of  joy.  "  Can — you — beat — that!  " 

Then  he  buttoned  the  lower  button  of  his  coat,  shrugged  his 
shoulders  with  an  extra  wriggle  at  the  collar  (the  modern  hero's 


116  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

method  of  girding  up  his  loins),  and  walked  calmly  into  Bartholo- 
mew Berg's  very  private  office. 

In  the  second  that  elapsed  between  the  opening  and  the  closing  of 
the  door  Jock's  glance  swept  the  three  men — Bartholomew  Berg, 
quiet,  inscrutable,  seated  at  his  great  table-desk;  Griebler,  lost  in  the 
depths  of  a  great  leather  chair,  smoking  fussily  and  twitching  with  a 
hundred  little  restless,  irritating  gestures;  Sam  Hupp,  standing  at  the 
opposite  side  of  the  room,  hands  in  pockets,  attitude  argumentative. 

"This  is  Mr.  McChesney,"  said  Bartholomew  Berg.  "Mr. 
Griebler,  McChesney." 

Jock  came  forward,  smiling  that  charming  smile  of  his.  "  Mr. 
Griebler,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  "  this  is  a  great  pleasure." 

"Hm!  "  exploded  Ben  Griebler,  "I  didn't  know  they  picked 
'em  so  young." 

His  voice  was  a  piping  falsetto  that  somehow  seemed  to  match 
his  restless  little  eyes. 

Jock  thrust  his  hands  hurriedly  into  his  pockets.  He  felt  his 
face  getting  scarlet. 

"  They're — ah — using  'em  young  this  year,"  said  Bartholomew 
Berg.  His  voice  sounded  bigger,  and  smoother,  and  pleasanter  than 
ever  in  contrast  with  that  other's  shrill  tone.  "  I  prefer  'em  young, 
myself.  You'll  never  catch  McChesney  using  '  in  the  last  analysis ' 
to  drive  home  an  argument.  He  has  a  new  idea  about  every  nine- 
teen minutes,  and  every  other  one's  a  good  one,  and  every  nineteenth 
or  so's  an  inspiration."  The  Old  Man  laughed  one  of  his  low, 
chuckling  laughs. 

"  Hm — that  so?  "  piped  Ben  Griebler.  "  Up  in  my  neck  of  the 
woods  we  aren't  so  long  on  inspiration.  We're  just  working  men, 
and  we  wear  working  clothes " 

"  Oh,  now,"  protested  Berg,  his  eyes  twinkling,  "  McChesney's 
necktie  and  socks  and  handkerchief  may  form  one  lovely,  blissful 
color  scheme,  but  that  doesn't  signify  at  all  that  his  advertising 
schemes  are  not  just  as  carefully  and  artistically  blended." 

Ben  Griebler  looked  shrewdly  up  at  Jock  through  narrowed  lids. 
"  Maybe.  I'll  talk  to  you  in  a  minute,  young  man — that  is —  "  he 
turned  quickly  upon  Berg — "  if  that  isn't  against  your  crazy  prin- 
ciples, too?  " 

"  Why,  not  at  all,"  Bartholomew  Berg  assured  him.  "  Not  at 
all.  You  do  me  an  injustice." 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  117 

Griebler  moved  up  closer  to  the  broad  table.  The  two  fell  into  a 
low-voiced  talk.  Jock  looked  rather  helplessly  around  at  Sam  Hupp. 
That  alert  gentleman  was  signalling  him  frantically  with  head  and 
wagging  finger.  Jock  crossed  the  big  room  to  Hupp's  side.  The  two 
moved  off  to  a  window  at  the  far  end. 

"  Give  heed  to  your  unkie,"  said  Sam  Hupp,  talking  very  rapidly, 
very  softly,  and  out  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth.  "  This  Griebler's 
looking  for  an  advertising  manager.  He's  as  pig-headed  as  a — a — 
well,  as  a  pig,  I  suppose.  But  it's  a  corking  chance,  youngster,  and 
the  Old  Man's  just  recommended  you — strong.  Now " 

«  Me !  "  exploded  Jock. 

"  Shut  up!  "  hissed  Hupp.  "  Two  or  three  years  with  that  firm 
would  be  the  making  of  you — if  you  made  good,  of  course.  And  you 
could.  They  want  to  move  their  factory  here  from  St.  Louis  within 
the  next  few  years.  Now  listen.  When  he  talks  to  you,  you  play  up 
the  keen,  alert  stuff  with  a  dash  of  sophistication,  see?  If  you  can 
keep  your  mouth  shut  and  throw  a  kind  of  a  canny,  I-get-you  look 
in  your  eyes,  all  the  better.  He's  gabby  enough  for  two.  Try 
a  line  of  talk  that  is  filled  with  the  fire  and  enthusiasm  of  youth, 
combined  with  the  good  judgment  and  experience  of  middle  age, 
and  you've " 

"  Say,  look  here,"  stammered  Jock.  "  Even  if  I  was  Warfield 
enough  to  do  all  that,  d'you  honestly  think — me  an  advertising  man- 
ager!— with  a  salary  that  Griebler " 

"  You  nervy  little  shrimp,  go  in  and  win.  He'll  pay  five  thousand 
if  he  pays  a  cent.  But  he  wants  value  for  money  expended.  Now 
I've  tipped  you  off.  You  make  your  killing " 

"  Oh,  McChesney!  "  called  Bartholomew  Berg,  glancing  round. 

"  Yes,  sir!  "  said  Jock,  and  stood  before  him  in  the  same  moment. 

"  Mr.  Griebler  is  looking  for  a  competent,  enthusiastic,  hard- 
working man  as  advertising  manager.  I've  spoken  to  him  of  you.  I 
know  what  you  can  do.  Mr.  Griebler  might  trust  my  judgment  in 
this,  but " 

"  I'll  trust  my  own  judgment,"  snapped  Ben  Griebler.  "  It's 
good  enough  for  me." 

"  Very  well,"  returned  Bartholomew  Berg  suavely.  "  And  if  you 
decide  to  place  your  advertising  future  in  the  hands  of  the  Berg, 
Shriner  Company— 

"  Now  look  here,"  interrupted  Ben  Griebler  again.    "  111  tie  up 


118  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

with  you  people  when  youVe  shaken  something  out  of  your  cuffs. 
I'm  not  the  kind  that  buys  a  pig  in  a  poke.  We're  going  to  spend 
money — real  money — in  this  campaign  of  ours.  But  I'm  not  such  a 
come-on  as  to  hand  you  half  a  million  or  so  and  get  a  promise  in 
return.  I  want  your  plans,  and  I  want  'em  in  full." 

A  little  exclamation  broke  from  Sam  Hupp.  He  checked  it,  but 
not  before  Berg's  curiously  penetrating  pale  blue  eyes  had  glanced  up 
at  him,  and  away  again. 

"  I've  told  you,  Mr.  Griebler,"  went  on  Bartholomew  Berg's  pa- 
tient voice,  "  just  why  the  thing  you  insist  on  is  impossible.  This 
firm  does  not  submit  advance  copy.  Every  business  commission  that 
comes  to  us  is  given  all  the  skill,  and  thought,  and  enthusiasm,  and 
careful  planning  that  this  office  is  capable  of.  You  know  our  record. 
This  is  a  business  of  ideas.  And  ideas  are  too  precious,  too  perish- 
able, to  spread  in  the  market  place  for  all  to  see." 

Ben  Griebler  stood  up.  His  cigar  waggled  furiously  between  his 
lips  as  he  talked. 

"  I  know  something  else  that  don't  stand  spreading  in  the  mar- 
ket place,  Berg.  And  that's  money.  It's  too  perishable,  too."  He 
pointed  a  stubby  finger  at  Jock.  "  Does  this  fool  rule  of  yours  apply 
to  this  young  fellow,  too?  " 

Bartholomew  Berg  seemed  to  grow  more  patient,  more  self-con- 
tained as  the  other  man's  self-control  slipped  rapidly  away. 

"  It  goes  for  every  man  and  woman  in  this  office,  Mr.  Griebler. 
This  young  chap,  McChesney  here,  might  spend  weeks  and  months 
building  up  a  comprehensive  advertising  plan  for  you.  He'd  spend 
those  weeks  studying  your  business  from  every  possible  angle.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  a  plan  that  would  require  a  year  of  waiting  before 
the  actual  advertising  began  to  appear.  And  then  you  might  lose 
faith  in  the  plan.  A  waiting  game  is  a  hard  game  to  play.  Some 
other  man's  idea,  that  promised  quicker  action,  might  appeal  to  you. 
And  when  it  appeared  we'd  very  likely  find  our  own  original  idea 
incorporated  in " 

"  Say,  look  here!  "  squeaked  Ben  Griebler,  his  face  dully  red. 
"  D'you  mean  to  imply  that  I'd  steal  your  plan!  D'you  mean  to  sit 
there  and  tell  me  to  my  face " 

"  Mr.  Griebler,  I  mean  that  that  thing  happens  constantly  in  this 
business.  We're  almost  powerless  to  stop  it.  Nothing  spreads 
quicker  than  a  new  idea.  Compared  to  it  a  woman's  secret  is  a 
sealed  book." 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  119 

Ben  Griebler  removed  the  cigar  from  his  lips.  He  was  stuttering 
with  anger.  With  a  mingling  of  despair  and  boldness  Jock  saw  the 
advantage  of  that  stuttering  moment  and  seized  on  it.  He  stepped 
close  to  the  broad  table-desk,  resting  both  hands  on  it  and  leaning 
forward  slightly  in  his  eagerness. 

"  Mr.  Berg — I  have  a  plan.  Mr.  Hupp  can  tell  you.  It  came  to 
me  when  I  first  heard  that  the  Grieblers  were  going  to  broaden  out. 
It's  a  real  idea.  I'm  sure  of  that.  I've  worked  it  out  in  detail.  Mr. 
Hupp  himself  said  it—  Why,  I've  got  the  actual  copy.  And  it's 
new.  Absolutely.  It  never " 

"  Trot  it  out!  "  shouted  Ben  Griebler.  "  I'd  like  to  see  just  one 
idea,  anyway,  around  this  shop." 

"  McChesney,"  said  Bartholomew  Berg,  not  raising  his  voice.  His 
eyes  rested  on  Jock  with  the  steady,  penetrating  gaze  that  was 
peculiar  to  him.  More  foolhardy  men  than  Jock  McChesney  had 
falterejd  and  paused,  abashed,  under  those  eyes.  "  McChesney,  your 
enthusiasm  for  your  work  is  causing  you  to  forget  one  thing  that 
must  never  be  forgotten  in  this  office." 

Jock  stepped  back.  His  lower  lip  was  caught  between  his  teeth. 
At  the  same  moment  Ben  Griebler  snatched  up  his  hat  from  the 
table,  clapped  it  on  his  head  at  an  absurd  angle  and,  bristling  like  a 
fighting  cock,  confronted  the  three  men. 

"  I've  got  a  couple  of  rules  myself,"  he  cried,  "  and  don't  you 
forget  it.  When  you  get  a  little  spare  time,  you  look  up  St.  Louis  and 
find  out  what  state  it's  in.  The  slogan  of  that  state  is  my  slogan, 
you  bet.  If  you  think  I'm  going  to  make  you  a  present  of  the  money 
that  it  took  my  old  man  fifty  years  to  pile  up,  then  you  don't  know 
that  Griebler  is  a  German  name.  Good  day,  gents." 

He  stalked  to  the  door.  There  he  turned  dramatically  and  lev- 
eled a  forefinger  at  Jock.  "  They  have  got  you  roped  and  tied.  But 
I  think  you're  a  comer.  If  you  change  your  mind,  kid,  come  and 
see  me." 

The  door  slammed  to  behind  him. 

"  Whew!  "  whistled  Sam  Hupp,  passing  a  handkerchief  over  his 
bald  spot. 

Bartholomew  Berg  reached  out  with  one  great  capable  hand  and 
swept  toward  him  a  pile  of  papers.  "  Oh,  well,  you  can't  blame  him. 
Advertising  has  been  a  scream  for  so  long.  Griebler  doesn't  know 
the  difference  between  advertising,  publicity,  and  bunk.  He'll  learn. 


120  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

But  it'll  be  an  awfully  expensive  course.  Now,  Hupp,  let's  go  over 
this  Kalamazoo  account.  That'll  be  all,  McChesney." 

Jock  turned  without  a  word.  He  walked  quickly  through 
the  outer  office,  into  the  great  main  room.  There  he  stopped  at 
the  switchboard. 

"  Er — Miss  Grimes,"  he  said,  smiling  charmingly,  "  where's  this 
Mr.  Griebler,  of  St.  Louis,  stopping;  do  you  know  his  hotel?  " 

"  Where  would  be  stop?  "  retorted  the  wise  Miss  Grimes.  "  Look 
at  him!  The  Waldorf,  of  course." 

"  Thanks,"  said  Jock,  still  smiling.    And  went  back  to  his  desk. 

At  five  Jock  left  the  office.  Under  his  arm  he  carried  the  flat 
pasteboard  package  secured  by  elastic  bands.  At  five-fifteen  he 
walked  swiftly  down  the  famous  corridor  of  the  great  red  stone  hotel. 
The  colorful  glittering  crowd  that  surged,  all  about  him  he  seemed 
not  to  see.  He  made  straight  for  the  main  desk  with  its  battalion 
of  clerks. 

"  Mr.  Griebler  in?    Mr.  Ben  Griebler,  St.  Louis?  " 

The  question  set  in  motion  the  hotel's  elaborate  system  of  inves- 
tigation. At  last:  "  Not  in." 

"  Do  you  know  when  he  will  be  in?  "    That  futile  question. 

"Can't  say.  He  left  no  word.  Do  you  want  to  leave  your  name?" 

"N-no.    Would  he — does  he  stop  at  this  desk  when  he  comes  in?" 

He  was  an  unusually  urbane  hotel  clerk.  "  Why,  usually  they 
leave  their  keyS  and  get  their  mail  from  the  floor  clerk.  But  Mr. 
Griebler  seems  to  prefer  the  main  desk." 

"  I'll — wait,"  said  Jock.  And  seated  in  one  of  the  great  throne- 
like  chairs,  he  waited.  He  sat  there,  slim  and  boyish,  while  the  laugh- 
ing, chattering  crowd  swept  all  about  him.  If  you  sit  long  enough  in 
that  foyer  you  will  learn  all  there  is  to  learn  about  life.  An  amazing 
sight  it  is — that  crowd.  Baraboo  helps  swell  it,  and  Spokane,  and 
Berlin,  and  Budapest  and  Pekin,  and  Paris,  and  Waco,  Texas.  So 
varied  it  is,  so  cosmopolitan,  that  if  you  sit  there  patiently  enough, 
and  watch  sharply  enough  you  will  now  and  again  even  see  a  chance 
New  Yorker. 

From  door  to  desk  Jock's  eyes  swept.  The  afternoon-tea  crowd, 
in  paradise  feathers,  and  furs,  and  frock  coats  swam  back  and  forth. 
He  saw  it  give  way  to  the  dinner  throng,  satin-shod,  bejeweled,  hurry- 
ing through  its  oysters,  swallowing  unbelievable  numbers  of  cloudy- 
amber  drinks,  and  golden-brown  drinks,  and  maroon  drinks,  then 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  121 

gathering  up  its  furs  and  rushing  theaterward.  He  was  still  sitting 
there  when  that  crowd,  its  eight  o'clock  freshness  somewhat  sullied, 
its  sparkle  a  trifle  dimmed,  swept  back  for  more  oysters,  more  cloudy- 
amber  and  golden-brown  drinks. 

At  half-hour  intervals,  then  at  hourly  intervals,  the  figure  in  the 
great  chair  stirred,  rose,  and  walked  to  the  desk. 

"  Has  Mr.  Griebler  come  in?  " 

The  supper  throng,  its  laugh  a  little  ribald,  its  talk  a  shade  high- 
pitched,  drifted  toward  the  street,  or  was  wafted  up  in  elevators. 
The  throng  thinned  to  an  occasional  group.  Then  these  became  rarer 
and  rarer.  The  revolving  door  admitted  one  man,  or  two,  perhaps, 
who  lingered  not  at  all  in  the  unaccustomed  quiet  of  the  great 
glittering  lobby. 

The  figure  of  the  watcher  took  on  a  pathetic  droop.  The  eyelids 
grew  leaden.  To  open  them  meant  an  almost  superhuman  effort. 
The  stare  of  the  new  night  clerks  grew  more  and  more  hostile  and 
suspicious.  A  grayish  pallor  had  settled  down  on  the  boy's  face. 
And  those  lines  of  the  night  before  stood  out  for  all  to  see. 

In  the  stillness  of  the  place  the  big  revolving  door  turned  once 
more,  complainingly.  For  the  thousandth  time  Jock's  eyes  lifted 
heavily.  Then  they  flew  wide  open.  The  drooping  figure  straight- 
ened electrically.  Half  a  dozen  quick  steps  and  Jock  stood  in  the 
pathway  of  Ben  Griebler  who,  rather  ruffled  and  untidy,  had  blown 
in  on  the  wings  of  the  morning. 

He  stared  a  moment.    "  Well,  what " 

"  I've  been  waiting  for  you  here  since  five  o'clock  last  evening. 
It  will  soon  be  five  o'clock  again.  Will  you  let  me  show  you  those 
plans  now?  " 

Ben  Griebler  had  surveyed  Jock  with  the  stony  calm  of  the  out- 
of-town  visitor  who  is  prepared  to  show  surprise  at  nothing  in 
New  York. 

"  There's  nothing  like  getting  an  early  start,"  said  Ben  Grieb- 
ler. "  Come  on  up  to  my  room."  Key  in  hand,  he  made  for  the 
elevator.  For  an  almost  imperceptible  moment  Jock  paused.  Then, 
with  a  little  rush,  he  followed  the  short,  thick-set  figure.  "  I  knew 
you  had  it  in  you,  McChesney.  I  said  you  looked  like  a  comer, 
didn't  I?  " 

Jock  said  nothing.    He  was  silent  while  Griebler  unlocked  his 


122  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

door,  turned  on  the  light,  fumbled  at  the  windows  and  shades,  picked 
up  the  telephone  receiver.  "  What'll  you  have?  " 

"  Nothing."  Jock  had  cleared  the  center  table  and  was  opening 
his  flat  bundle  of  papers.  He  drew  up  two  chairs.  "  Let's  not  waste 
any  time,"  he  said.  "  I've  had  a  twelve-hour  wait  for  this."  He 
seemed  to  control  the  situation.  Obediently  Ben  Griebler  hung  up 
the  receiver,  came  over,  and  took  the  chair  very  close  to  Jock. 

"  There's  nothing  artistic  about  gum,"  began  Jock  McChesney; 
and  his  manner  was  that  of  a  man  who  is  sure  of  himself.  "  It's  a 
shirt-sleeve  product,  and  it  ought  to  be  handled  from  a  shirt-sleeve 
stand-point.  Every  gum  concern  in  the  country  has  spent  thousands 
on  a  *  better-than-candy '  campaign  before  it  realized  that  gum  is  a 
candy-and-drug-store  article,  and  that  no  man  is  going  to  push  a 
five-cent  package  of  gum  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  sale  of  an  eighty-cent 
box  of  candy.  But  the  health  note  is  there — if  only  you  strike  it 
right.  Now,  here's  my  idea " 

At  six  o'clock  Ben  Griebler,  his  little  shrewd  eyes  sparkling,  his 
voice  more  squeakily  falsetto  than  ever,  surveyed  the  youngster  be- 
fore him  with  a  certain  awe. 

"  This — this  thing  will  actually  sell  our  stuff  in  Europe!  No 
gum  concern  has  ever  been  able  to  make  the  stuff  go  outside  of  this 
country.  Why,  inside  of  three  years  every  'Any  and  'Arriet  in 
England '11  be  chewing  it  on  bank  holidays.  I  don't  know  about 
Germany,  but—  He  pushed  back  his  chair  and  got  up.  "  Well, 
I'm  sold  on  that.  And  what  I  say  goes.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do,  kid.  I'll  take  you  down  to  St.  Louis  with  me,  at  a  figure 
that'll  make  your " 

Jock  looked  up. 

"  Or  if  you  don't  want  the  Berg,  Shriner  crowd  to  get  wise, 
111  fix  it  this  way:  I'll  go  over  there  this  morning  and  tell  'em  I've 
changed  my  mind,  see?  The  campaign's  theirs,  see?  Then  I  refuse 
to  consider  any  of  their  suggestions  until  I  see  your  plan.  And 
when  I  see  it  I  fall  for  it  like  a  ton  of  bricks.  Old  Bergll  never 
know.  He's  so  darned  high-principled " 

Jock  McChesney  stood  up.  The  little  drawn  pinched  look 
which  had  made  his  face  so  queerly  old  was  gone.  His  eyes  were 
bright.  His  face  was  flushed. 

"There!  You've  said  it.  I  didn't  realize  how  raw  this  deal 
was  until  you  put  it  into  words  for  me.  I  want  to  thank  you. 


THE  MAN  WITHIN  HIM  123 

You're  right.  Bartholomew  Berg  is  so  darned  high-principled  that 
two  muckers  like  you  and  me,  groveling  around  in  the  dirt,  can't 
even  see  the  tips  of  the  heights  to  which  his  ideals  have  soared, 
Don't  stop  me.  I  know  I'm  talking  like  a  book.  But  I  feel  like 
something  that  has  just  been  kicked  out  into  the  sunshine  after 
having  been  in  jail." 

"  You're  tired,"  said  Ben  Griebler.  "  It's  been  a  strain.  Some- 
thing always  snaps  after  a  long  tension." 

Jock's  flat  palm  came  down  among  the  papers  with  a  crack. 

"  You  bet  something  snaps!  It  has  just  snapped  inside  me." 
He  began  quietly  to  gather  up  the  papers  in  an  orderly  little  way. 

"  What's  that  for?  "  inquired  Griebler,  coming  forward.  "  You 
surely  don't  mean " 

"  I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  go  home  and  square  this  thing  with 
a  lady  you've  never  met.  You  and  she  wouldn't  get  on,  if  you 
did.  You  don't  talk  the  same  language.  Then  I'm  going  to  have  a 
cold  bath,  and  a  hot  breakfast.  And  then,  Griebler,  I'm  going  to 
take  this  stuff  to  Bartholomew  Berg  and  tell  him  the  whole  nasty 
business.  He'll  see  the  humor  of  it.  But  I  don't  know  whether 
he'll  fire  me,  or  make  me  vice-president  of  the  company.  Now,  if 
you  want  to  come  over  and  talk  to  him,  fair  and  square,  why  come." 

"  Ten  to  one  he  fires  you,"  remarked  Griebler,  as  Jock  reached 
the  door. 

"  There's  only  one  person  I  know  who's  game  enough  to  take 
you  up  on  that.  And  it's  going  to  take  more  nerve  to  face  her  at 
six-thirty  than  it  will  to  tackle  a  whole  battalion  of  Bartholomew 
Bergs  at  nine." 

"  Well,  I  guess  I  can  get  in  a  three-hour  sleep  before — er — 

"  Before  what?  "  said  Jock  McChesney  from  the  door. 

Ben  Griebler  laughed  a  little  shamefaced  laugh.  "  Before  I 
see  you  at  ten,  sonny." 


A  POTTER'S  WHEEL 
BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

IN  the  course  of  the  following  week,  Harvey  Porter  received 
permission  to  climb  a  flight  of  steps  up  which  he  had  often  cast  long- 
ing glances.  From  the  wedging-table  the  clay  was  carried  straight 
to  the  potting-room,  and  now  Harvey  shared  this  work  with  other 
lads.  He  ascended,  bearing  a  load  of  perfected  clay,  and  found 
himself  in  a  large  and  lofty  chamber  full  of  air  and  light,  illuminated 
on  the  north  and  west  by  tall  windows,  and  having  white-washed 
walls.  In  the  midst  were  ranges  of  open  shelves  to  support  the 
six-foot  boards,  and  round  about  stood  potters'  wheels  and  turning- 
lathes.  Men  came  and  went,  boys  hastened  hither  and  thither,  and 
the  hum  of  Mr.  Trolley's  steam-engine  ascended  through  the  open 
flooring.  For  two  lathes  and  two  wheels  were  worked  by  steam,  the 
power  controlled  by  the  potters'  and  the  turners'  feet.  But  Thomas 
Body  sat  apart  at  the  string- wheel,  and  a  boy  supplied  the  motive 
power  for  him.  He  made  the  large  pieces,  and  while  beside  the 
younger  man  spread  hundreds  of  lesser  things  turned  by  their  swift 
hands  from  the  spinning  clay,  on  Body's  board  rose  varied  vases 
that  obeyed  no  gauge,  but  budded  and  blossomed  to  his  will. 

Porter  was  told  to  prepare  his  lump  of  clay  for  Mr.  Body,  and 
with  a  weight  and  scales  he  separated  his  mass  into  lesser  masses, 
each  weighing  three  pounds.  These  balls  he  ranged  before  the 
potter,  and  was  permitted  for  a  while  to  watch  the  magic  business. 

A  little  shining  wheel  of  steel  stood  in  a  basin  thickly  spattered 
with  red  mud,  and  beside  the  thrower  were  the  few  tools  that  he 
used — prickers,  calipers,  drill,  and  sponge.  Within  reach  of  his 
hand,  also,  were  ribs  of  slate  and  tin — modeled  for  the  inside  and 
outside  of  the  pot — and  a  wire  with  which  he  cut  the  finished  piece 
from  the  wheel.  Beside  him,  in  the  trough  where  his  wheel  spun, 
stood  a  bowl  of  water  colored  to  redness. 

Another  perpendicular  wheel  more  than  six  feet  high  stood  close 
at  hand,  and  made  Charlie  Coysh,  who  turned  it,  look  small.    Its 
great  revolution  and  steady  progress  were  more  fitted  to  master 
work  than  the  steam-driven  wheels,  and  it  escaped  their  vibration. 
124 


A  POTTER'S  WHEEL  125 

Mr.  Body  sat  like  a  king  on  his  throne.  He  was  red  to  the  eyes. 
He  wore  a  great  apron,  and  his  sleeves  were  turned  up  to  the  elbows. 
His  hands  and  arms  shone  with  wet  redness;  his  grey  beard  was 
spattered.  Now  he  threw  a  lump  of  clay,  pressed  it  sharply  on  the 
eye  of  the  wheel,  and  crouched  and  cuddled  over  it  like  a  beast 
over  a  bone.  His  hands  seemed  to  merge  in  the  lump  as  he  gripped 
it,  and  set  his  wrists,  arms,  and  shoulders  to  the  work. 

"  That's  called  '  truing  the  ball,' "  he  explained;  "  but  I  call  it 
1  taming  the  ball.'  " 

Charlie  turned  fast,  the  potter's  wheel  whirled,  and  for  a  moment 
the  clay  spluttered  and  fought,  as  it  seemed,  while  Mr.  Body,  with 
his  face  bent  near  enough  to  catch  the  splashes,  laughed. 

"  Tis  the  last  struggle  to  be  free!  "  he  said;  "  the  untamed  clay 
fights  the  potter  like  that,  just  for  a  moment,  till  he  feels  the  grip 
grows  tight  on  him  and  he  knows  he's  met  his  master.  But  don't  you 
think  anybody  can  beat  him.  If  you  was  sitting  here,  he'd  fight  and 
beat  you  again  and  again."  In  an  instant  the  lump  was  steadied, 
dragged  up  to  a  cone,  and  pressed  down  again  to  a  ball  that  every 
bubble  of  air  might  be  expelled  and  the  whole  welded  to  an 
obedient  mass. 

"  Now  it's  tame  and  broken,"  said  the  potter,  "  and  in  go 
my  thumbs." 

He  began  to  model. 

"  You  see  the  piece  in  your  mind's  eye  first  and  work  accord- 
ing," he  said.  "  You  see  it  standing  before  you  as  clear  as  those 
vases  on  that  board.  A  man  like  Mr.  Easterbrook  can  build  a 
model  as  he  goes,  and  turns  his  fancies  into  clay  as  they  come  into 
his  head;  and  he's  told  me  that  often  and  often  he'll  dream  a  pot 
finer  than  any  that  ever  he's  thrown  and  come  red  hot  to  the  wheel 
to  make  it;  but  the  dream's  gone,  and  he  can't  turn  it  into  a  living 
pot.  Now  I'm  building  a  vase." 

His  thumbs  were  hollowing  the  heart  of  the  clay,  and  he  began 
to  lift  it.  It  rose  to  his  touch,  rounded,  hollowed,  billowed  magically, 
expanded  here  to  the  belly  of  the  vase,  narrowed  above  to  its  neck, 
then  opened  again  like  a  blossoming  flower,  and  turned  over  daintily 
to  make  the  lip.  The  clay  revolved,  fast  at  first,  slower  as  the  piece 
came  near  its  finishing,  for  the  boy  at  the  big  string-wheel  watched 
its  progress  and  worked  at  his  handle  accordingly.  Body's  shining 
red  hands  hovered,  darted,  turned  and  twisted,  touched  and  pressed. 


126  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

They  were  never  still  for  an  instant.  Round  the  pot  and  into  it, 
they  went,  now  suffering  the  thin  clay  lip  to  run  between  his  fingers, 
now  taking  the  whole  palm  to  the  face,  now  working  within,  and 
all  the  while  slowly  and  subtly  lifting  the  clay  to  its  limits.  He 
talked  while  he  worked. 

"  There's  things  a  potter  can  tell,  and  there's  things  he  cannot," 
he  said;  "  and  one  thing  that  you  cannot  is  how  you  know  the 
clay's  drawn  up  to  its  fulness,  and  running  as  thin  as  you  dare  to 
let  it.  To  know  when  to  stop  when  you're  potting  like  this  without 
gauges  is  an  instinct ;  but  them  that  don't  find  it  come  quick  to  them, 
will  never  make  potters." 

The  vase  reached  completion,  and  a  glistening  thread  of  light, 
fine  as  a  gossamer,  ascended  on  its  rounded  breast — the  tiny  rising 
of  the  clay  between  the  potter's  fingers. 

"  Tis  done!  "  said  Mr.  Body.  Then  the  wheel  grew  still;  he 
took  his  wire,  cut  the  pot  away,  and  lifted  it  carefully  to  its  place 
on  the  board  beside  him. 

"  'Twill  dry  a  while  below,  and  then  come  back  again  to  Mr. 
Godbeer,"  explained  the  old  man.  "  Such  work  as  this  goes  to  him, 
and  he  smoothes  and  fines  and  takes  my  meaning  with  all  his 
cleverness,  and  puts  the  finishing  touch  to  the  shape;  but  the 
master's  pots  never  have  touch  of  lathe  upon  them.  He  won't 
suffer  it,  for  he  hateth  the  lathe.  It  kills  out  the  soul  and  spirit  of 
a  piece,  in  his  opinion,  and  makes  all  pots  equal — like  the  Socialists 
would  have  all  men.  But  the  paying  public  like  for  all  to  be  suent 
and  finished,  and  the  shop-people  know  it.  That's  where  Mr.  Easter- 
brook's  different  from  common  men.  He'd  sooner  see  what  you  might 
call  a  great  pot,  even  if  it  was  faulty,  than  just  a  common  every-day 
thing  like  these  I'm  making." 


The  Sunday  on  which  Porter  was  to  serve  Mr.  Easterbrook 
arrived,  and  he  reached  the  works  an  hour  before  the  master.  The 
ordeal  made  him  anxious,  but  not  nervous,  for  he  knew  that  he 
could  not  fail. 

He  went  aloft,  marked  the  master's  clay  waiting  for  him  under 
wet  cloths,  and  revolved  the  wheel  once  or  twice  to  see  that  all  was 
ready.  Then  an  idea  occurred  to  him,  and  he  set  about  cleaning  the 


A  POTTER'S  WHEEL  127 

trough  and  making  the  wheel  brighter  and  smarter  far  than  Mr. 
Easterbrook  was  accustomed  to  find  it.  For  Thomas  Body  attached 
no  importance  to  such  trifles,  and  liked  the  red  clay  spattered  about 
his  work  as  well  as  his  person. 

Easterbrook  arrived,  and  he  and  Porter  ascended  to  the  wheel. 

George  Easterbrook  perceived  that  Harvey  had  been  at  pains 
to  make  all  clean  for  him,  but  he  did  not  comment  on  the  fact.  He 
allowed  minor  evidences  of  this  sort  to  accumulate  without  reveal- 
ing that  he  had  observed  them;  but  they  were  recorded,  not  for- 
gotten. He  took  off  his  coat,  turned  up  his  sleeves,  and  drew  on  a 
great  overall.  Then  he  went  to  a  private  locker  and  produced 
therefrom  a  few  of  his  own  tools  of  wood  and  metal,  with  a  large 
diagram.  It  represented  the  various  fundamental  shapes  of  the 
classic  vase:  the  great  rounded  amphora  and  hydria;  the  narrower, 
up-springing  Lecythus;  the  wide-mouthed  crater  and  cantharus;  the 
cylix,  flattened  to  a  dish;  the  lebes  on  its  pedestal;  the  circular 
araballus;  the  jug-shaped  oenochoe. 

"  There— look  at  those  closely,"  said  Mr.  Easterbrook.  "  That's 
the  scale  on  which  a  potter  plays  his  music.  They  include  every- 
thing that  can  be  made  on  a  wheel.  The  forms  slide  into  each 
other,  and  the  combinations  of  these  forms  are  more  in  number 
than  the  stars,  because  they  depend  upon  a  limitless  thing;  and 
that's  the  imagination  of  man." 

Harvey  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  turned  up  his  sleeves.  Now 
he  regarded  the  outlines  without  speaking. 

"  In  them  you  see  almost  every  great,  fine  form  that  Nature  can 
show  you,"  explained  the  potter.  "  You  might  think  that  the  world 
was  full  of  beautiful  outlines  outside  these;  you  might  think  on  the 
calf  of  a  man's  leg;  the  turn  of  a  girl's  cheek,  or  the  lines  of  a 
hunting-cat  or  coursing  greyhound;  or  you  might  reckon  there  was 
greater  beauty  to  be  got  by  the  seeing  eye  from  the  waves,  or  the 
cliffs,  or  the  clouds  in  the  sky,  or  the  shapes  of  the  leaves  and  the 
boughs;  or  the  flame  in  the  fire,  maybe;  or  the  smoke  curling  out 
of  a  man's  pipe.  You  might  say  in  your  first  ignorance,  Harvey, 
that  these  pictures  here  are  far  short  of  the  stir  and  bustle  of  living 
and  moving  forms  that  fill  the  earth;  but  you'd  be  wrong.  The 
men  that  made  these  things  saw  better  and  keener  and  farther 
than  any  eyes  that  have  looked  out  at  the  world  since  their  time. 


128  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

They  were  the  most  reasonable  beings  that  the  world  has  known; 
and  they  let  nothing  escape  them  that  was  worth  keeping — from 
the  twist  of  a  shell  to  the  shoulder  of  a  mountain.  You  shall  read 
about  them  in  course  of  time.  They  were  called  the  Greeks.  Mr. 
Pitts  tells  that  he  has  read  here  and  there  that  all  Greek  art  is  dead, 
and  the  spirit  that  made  it  is  dead;  but  only  very  silly  folk  can 
hold  to  that.  Because  their  discoveries  about  the  secrets  of  beauty 
go  to  the  root,  and  only  those  who  think  the  secrets  of  ugliness  are 
better  worth  finding  out  will  say  that  the  Greek  spirit  is  dead.  How- 
ever, to  Mr.  Pitts  you  must  go  if  you  want  to  learn  about  art." 

The  boy  listened;  but  one  word  in  this  harangue  had  appealed 
to  him  with  a  force  greater  than  all  the  rest,  and  that  was  his  own 
Christian  name.  Until  now  Easterbrook  had  never  called  him 
"  Harvey."  To-day  he  did  so,  the  word  slipping  out  naturally  in 
the  midst  of  his  discourse.  And  Porter  knew,  from  his  own  experi- 
ence, that  one  does  not  speak  to  a  person  by  a  name,  if  only  a 
nickname,  until  one  has  often  thought  of  the  person  by  that  name. 
He  was  gratified — indeed,  mightily  pleased.  It  seemed  that  the  inci- 
dent drew  him  nearer  to  the  master. 

Now  the  potter  worked,  while  Harvey  Porter  responded  with 
every  nerve  instinct  alert  to  do  himself  credit. 

Even  he  could  seej  the  difference  between  George  Easterbrook's 
methods  and  those  of  Thomas  Body.  Here  was  no  less  reverence 
for  the  medium,  but  greater  power  over  it.  There  was  mystery  and 
magic  in  this  man's  potting.  The  strength  behind  the  delicacy  was 
concealed,  for  the  clay  twined  and  curled,  and  seemed  sentient  and 
happy  in  his  hands.  It  responded  without  visible  cause,  for  Mr. 
Easterbrook's  manual  labors  were  less  in  evidence  than  Body's. 
Body  appeared  to  be  doing  a  difficult  thing  well;  Easterbrook  made 
a  difficult  thing  look  childishly  easy.  His  pots  seemed  to  ascend 
and  grow  like  flowers  off  the  wheel,  while  those  of  Thomas  were  the 
result  of  a  process  of  labored  building.  The  clay  now  rose  and 
fell  as  easily  as  a  sea-wave ;  it  expanded,  contracted,  swelled,  shrank, 
bellied  to  an  amphora,  spired  to  a  narrow  vase,  then  sank  again, 
opened  to  a  cylix  or  narrowed  to  an  cenochoe.  And  all  the  time  it 
seemed  to  breathe  and  palpitate  until,  the  last  touch  given,  the 
wheel  slowed  and  stilled,  and  the  stately  thing  born  of  earth  and 
water  stood  created  and  ready  for  the  ordeal  of  fire. 


A  POTTER'S  WHEEL  129 

"Life  flows  into  it  from  the  potter's  palm  and  fingers,"  ex- 
plained the  master.  "  The  clay  is  ready  and  willing;  you  feel  that 
it  is  anxious  to  do  your  bidding  and  make  swift  and  faithful  response; 
yet  the  clay  preserves  its  own  qualities  for  all  my  handiwork. 
There's  great  dignity  in  matter,  you  must  know.  It  obeys  in  the 
measure  of  its  power,  but  it  imposes  its  own  conditions  on  the 
potter.  If  the  ignorant  or  clumsy  hand  asks  the  clay  to  do  more 
than  it  is  able,  it  refuses.  It  can  only  respond  within  its  own 
capabilities,  and  we  who  are  skilled  know  them,  and  lift  the  clay  to 
its  own  highest  powers  of  expression,  as  the  wise  father  trains  a 
child  gently  to  his  finest  possibility." 

He  worked  awhile,  and  then  spoke  again. 

"  There's  this  difference,  however:  a  wise  workman  knows  his 
own  clay,  but  the  wisest  father  doesn't  know  his  own  child,  so  that 
likeness  breaks  down." 

He  proceeded,  moulding  his  own  severe  sense  of  beauty  into  one 
inert  mass  after  another.  There  woke,  as  it  seemed,  a  close,  ob- 
servant, taut  sympathy  between  him  and  his  material  from  the 
moment  it  began  to  spin  and  the  ball  was  trued.  A  wondrous  trinity 
of  intellect,  motion,  and  matter  worked  here  together. 

Easterbrook  put  it  differently,  however. 

"  There's  three  things  go  to  making  pots,  just  as  there's  three 
things  go  to  making  all  else,"  he  said.  "  And  they  are  matter,  life, 
and  mind.  So  at  least  I  hold,  though  many  wiser  men  than  me  deny 
the  mind.  But  it  looks  like  that  to  my  eyes,  and  in  the  business 
of  potting  the  matter's  the  red  mud  here;  the  life  is  the  spinning 
wheel;  the  mind  is  the  craftsman's,  who  brings  wheel  and  earth 
together  and  creates  the  pot." 

He  finished  eighteen  pieces  in  the  space  of  an  hour,  and  when 
the  work  was  ended  he  gave  the  boy  a  crumb  of  praise. 

"  You've  done  all  that  was  needful.  Joanna  will  be  jealous," 
he  said.  "  Now  fetch  me  clean  water  and  a  towel,  and  tell  me  which 
you  like  best." 

He  pointed  to  the  vases,  and  the  boy  would  have  given  much  to 
know  what  specially  to  praise.  He  considered,  then  he  selected  a 
bold  piece  of  somewhat  opulent  and  involved  design.  Mr.  Easter- 
brook  shook  his  head. 

"  Many  will  think  the  same,  and  many  will  think  wrong.    When 
many  people  agree  about  a  thing,  they're  generally  wrong." 
9 


130  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Then  he  pointed  to  a  small  and  severe  model  some  eight 
inches  high. 

"  That's  the  best,"  he  said. 

"  What  will  Mr.  Pitts  do  to  it,  sir?  "  ventured  Porter. 

"  He'll  do  nothing  to  it  if  I  know  him,"  answered  the  partner 
of  Paul.  "  Anyway,  I  hope  he  won't.  When  Mr.  Pitts  happens  to 
be  properly  pleased  with  a  pot  of  my  making,  he  doesn't  touch  it. 
That's  his  way  of  saying  '  Well  done!  '  to  me." 


THE  RIVERMAN 
BY  STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 

I  FIRST  met  him  one  Fourth  of  July  afternoon  in  the  middle 
eighties.  The  sawdust  streets  and  high  board  sidewalks  of  the 
lumber  town  were  filled  to  the  brim  with  people.  The  permanent 
population,  dressed  in  the  stiffness  of  its  Sunday  best,  escorted 
gingham  wives  or  sweethearts;  a  dozen  outsiders  like  myself  tried 
not  to  be  too  conspicuous  in  a  city  smartness;  but  the  great  multi- 
tude was  composed  of  the  men  of  the  woods.  I  sat,  chair-tilted,  by 
the  hotel,  watching  them  pass.  Their  heavy  woolen  shirts  crossed 
by  the  broad  suspenders,  the  red  of  their  sashes  or  leather  shine  of 
their  belts,  their  short  kersey  trousers,  "  stagged  "  off  to  leave  a 
gap  between  the  knee  and  the  heavily  spiked  "  cork  boots  " — all  these 
were  distinctive  enough  of  their  class,  but  most  interesting  to  me 
were  the  eyes  that  peered  from  beneath  their  little  round  hats  tilted 
rakishly  askew.  They  were  all  subtly  alike,  those  eyes.  Some  were 
black,  some  were  brown,  or  grey,  or  blue,  but  all  were  steady  and 
unabashed,  all  looked  straight  at  you  with  a  strange  humorous  blend- 
ing of  aggression  and  respect  for  your  own  business,  and  all  without 
exception  wrinkled  at  the  corners  with  a  suggestion  of  dry  humor. 
In  my  half-conscious  scrutiny  I  probably  stared  harder  than  I 
knew,  for  all  at  once  a  laughing  pair  of  the  blue  eyes  suddenly  met 
mine  full,  and  an  ironical  voice  drawled: 

"  Say,  bub,  you  look  as  interested  as  a  man  killing  snakes.  Am 
I  your  long-lost  friend?  " 

The  tone  of  the  voice  matched  accurately  the  attitude  of  the 
man,  and  that  was  quite  non-committal.  He  stood  cheerfully  ready 
to  meet  the  emergency.  If  I  sought  trouble,  it  was  here  to  my  hand ; 
or  if  I  needed  help,  he  was  willing  to  offer  it. 

"  I  guess  you  are,"  I  replied,  "  if  you  can  tell  me  what  all  this 
outfit's  headed  for." 

He  thrust  back  his  hat  and  ran  his  hand  through  a  mop  of 
closely  cropped  light  curls. 

"  Birling  match,"  he  explained  briefly.    "  Come  on." 

I  joined  him,  and  together  we  followed  the  crowd  to  the  river, 

131 


132  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

where  we  roosted  like  cormorants  on  adjacent  piles  overlooking  a 
patch  of  clear  water  among  the  filled  booms. 

"  Drive's  just  over,"  my  new  friend  informed  me.  "  Rear  come 
down  last  night.  Fourther  July  celebration.  This  little  town  will 
scratch  fer  th'  tall  timber  along  about  midnight  when  the  boys  goes 
in  to  take  her  apart." 

A  half-dozen  men  with  peavies  rolled  a  white-pine  log  of  about 
a  foot  and  a  half  diameter  into  the  clear  water,  where  it  lay  rocking 
back  and  forth,  three  or  four  feet  from  the  boom  piles.  Suddenly 
a  man  ran  the  length  of  the  boom,  leaped  easily  into  the  air,  and 
landed  with  both  feet  square  on  one  end  of  the  floating  log.  That 
end  disappeared  in  an  ankle-deep  swirl  of  white  foam,  the  other  rose 
suddenly,  the  whole  timber,  projected  forward  by  the  shock,  drove 
headlong  to  the  middle  of  the  little  pond.  And  the  man,  his  arms 
folded,  his  knees  just  bent  in  the  graceful,  nervous  attitude  of  the 
circus-rider,  stood  upright  like  a  statue  of  bronze. 

A  roar  approved  this  feat. 

"That's  Dickey  Darrell,"  said  my  informant;  "  Roaring  Dick. 
Watch  him." 

The  man  on  the  log  was  small,  with  clean  beautiful  haunches  and 
shoulders,  but  with  hanging  baboon  arms.  Perhaps  his  most  striking 
feature  was  a  mop  of  reddish-brown  hair  that  overshadowed  a  little 
triangular  white  face  accented  by  two  reddish-brown  quadrilaterals 
that  served  as  eyebrows  and  a  pair  of  inscrutable  chipmunk  eyes. 

For  a  moment  he  poised  erect  in  the  great  calm  of  the  public 
performer.  Then  slowly  he  began  to  revolve  the  log  under  his 
feet.  The  lofty  gaze,  the  folded  arms,  the  straight  supple  waist 
budged  not  by  a  hair's  breadth;  only  the  feet  stepped  forward,  at 
first  deliberately,  then  faster  and  faster,  until  the  rolling  log  threw 
a  blue  spray  a  foot  into  the  air.  Then  suddenly  slap!  slap!  the  heavy 
caulks  stamped  a  reversal.  The  log  came  instantaneously  to  rest, 
quivering  exactly  like  some  animal  that  had  been  spurred  through 
its  paces. 

"  Magnificent!  "  I  cried. 

"  That's  nothing  1  "  my  companion  repressed  me;  "  anybody  can 
birl  a  log.  Watch  this." 

Roaring  Dick  for  the  first  time  unfolded  his  arms.  With  some 
appearance  of  caution  he  balanced  his  unstable  footing  into  absolute 
immobility.  Then  he  turned  a  somersault. 


THE  RIVERMAN  133 

This  was  the  real  thing.  My  friend  uttered  a  wild  yell  of 
Applause  which  was  lost  in  a  general  roar. 

A  long  pike-pole  shot  out,  bit  the  end  of  the  timber,  and  towed 
it  to  the  boom  pile.  Another  man  stepped  on  the  log  with  Darrell. 
They  stood  facing  each  other,  bent-kneed,  alert.  Suddenly  with 
one  accord  they  commenced  to  birl  the  log  from  left  to  right.  The 
pace  grew  hot.  Like  squirrels  treading  a  cage  their  feet  twinkled. 
Then  it  became  apparent  that  Darrell's  opponent  was  gradually 
being  forced  from  the  top  of  the  log.  He  could  not  keep  up.  Little 
by  little,  still  moving  desperately,  he  dropped  back  to  the  slant,  then 
at  last  to  the  edge,  and  so  off  into  the  river  with  a  mighty  splash. 

"  Clean  birled!  "  commented  my  friend. 

One  after  another  a  half-dozen  rivermen  tackled  the  imperturb- 
able Dick,  but  none  of  them  possessed  the  agility  to  stay  on  top  in 
the  pace  he  set  them.  One  boy  of  eighteen  seemed  for  a  moment  to 
hold  his  own,  and  managed  at  least  to  keep  out  of  the  water  even 
when  Darrell  had  apparently  reached  his  maximum  speed.  But 
that  expert  merely  threw  his  entire  weight  into  two  reversing  stamps 
of  his  feet,  and  the  young  fellow  drove  forward  as  abruptly  as 
though  he  had  been  shied  over  a  horse's  head. 

The  crowd  was  by  now  getting  uproarious  and  impatient  of 
volunteer  effort  to  humble  Darrell's  challenge.  It  wanted  the  best, 
and  at  once.  It  began,  with  increasing  insistence,  to  shout  a  name. 

"  Jimmy  Powers!  "  it  vociferated;  "  Jimmy  Powers." 

And  then  by  shamefaced  bashfulness,  by  profane  protest,  by 
muttered  and  comprehensive  curses,  I  knew  that  my  companion  on 
the  other  pile  was  indicated. 

A  dozen  men  near  at  hand  began  to  shout.  "  Here  he  is!  "  they 
cried.  "  Come  on,  Jimmy."  "  Don't  be  a  high  banker."  "  Hang  his 
hide  on  the  fence." 

Jimmy,  still  red  and  swearing,  suffered  himself  to  be  pulled  from 
his  elevation  and  disappeared  in  the  throng,  A  moment  later  I 
caught  his  head  and  shoulders  pushing  toward  the  boom  piles,  and 
so  in  a  moment  he  stepped  warily  aboard  to  face  his  antagonist. 

This  was  evidently  no  question  to  be  determined  by  the  sim- 
plicity of  force  or  the  simplicity  of  a  child's  trick.  The  two  men 
stood  half-crouched,  face  to  face,  watching  each  other  narrowly, 
but  making  no  move.  To  me  they  seemed  like  two  wrestlers  sparring 
for  an  opening.  Slowly  the  log  revolved  one  way;  then  slowly  the 


134  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

other.  It  was  a  mere  courtesy  of  salute.  All  at  once  Dick  birled 
three  rapid  strokes  from  left  to  right,  as  though  about  to  roll  the 
log,  leaped  into  the  air  and  landed  square  with  both  feet  on  the 
other  slant  of  the  timber.  Jimmy  Powers  felt  the  jar,  and  acknowl- 
edged it  by  the  spasmodic  jerk  with  which  he  counterbalanced 
Darrell's  weight.  But  he  was  not  thrown. 

As  though  this  daring  and  hazardous  manoeuver  had  opened  the 
combat,  both  men  sprang  to  life.  Sometimes  the  log  rolled  one  way, 
sometimes  the  other,  sometimes  it  jerked  from  side  to  side  like  a 
crazy  thing,  but  always  with  the  rapidity  of  light,  always  in  a 
smother  of  spray  and  foam.  The  decided  spat,  spat,  spat  of  the 
reversing  blows  from  the  caulked  boots  sounded  like  picket  firing.  I 
could  not  make  out  the  different  leads,  feints,  parries,  and  counters 
of  this  strange  method  of  boxing,  nor  could  I  distinguish  to  whose 
initiative  the  various  evolutions  of  that  log  could  be  ascribed.  But 
I  retain  still  a  vivid  mental  picture  of  two  men  nearly  motionless 
above  the  waist,  nearly  vibrant  below  it,  dominating  the  insane 
gyrations  of  a  stick  of  pine. 

The  crowd  was  appreciative  and  partisan — for  Jimmy  Powers. 
It  howled  wildly,  and  rose  thereby  to  ever  higher  excitement.  Then 
it  forgot  its  manners  utterly  and  groaned  when  it  made  out  that  a 
sudden  splash  represented  its  favorite,  while  the  indomitable  Darrell 
still  trod  the  quarter-deck  as  champion  birler  for  the  year. 

I  must  confess  I  was  as  sorry  as  anybody.  I  climbed  down  from 
my  cormorant  roost,  and  picked  my  way  between  the  alleys  of 
aromatic  piled  lumber  in  order  to  avoid  the  press,  and  cursed  the 
little  gods  heartily  for  undue  partiality  in  the  wrong  direction.  In 
this  manner  I  happened  on  Jimmy  Powers  himself  seated  dripping 
on  a  board  and  examining  his  bared  foot. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  I  behind  him.    "  How  did  he  do  it?  " 

He  whirled,  and  I  could  see  that  his  laughing  boyish  face  had 
become  suddenly  grim  and  stern,  and  that  his  eyes  were  shot 
with  blood. 

"  Oh,  it's  you,  is  it?  "  he  growled  disparagingly.  "  Well,  that's 
how  he  did  it." 

He  held  out  his  foot.  Across  the  instep  and  at  the  base  of  the 
toes  ran  two  rows  of  tiny  round  punctures  from  which  the  blood 
was  oozing.  I  looked  very  inquiring. 

"  He  corked  me!  "  Jimmy  Powers  explained.     "  Jammed  his 


THE  RIVERMAN  135 

spikes  into  me!  Stepped  on  my  foot  and  tripped  me,  the " 

Jimmy  Powers  certainly  could  swear. 

"  Why  didn't  you  make  a  kick?  "  I  cried. 

"  That  ain't  how  I  do  it,"  he  muttered,  pulling  on  his  heavy 
woolen  sock. 

"  But  no,"  I  insisted,  my  indignation  mounting.  "  It's  an  out- 
rage! That  crowd  was  with  you.  All  you  had  to  do  was  to 
say  something " 

He  cut  me  short.  "  And  give  myself  away  as  a  fool — sure  Mike. 
I  ought  to  know  Dicky  Darrell  by  this  time,  and  I  ought  to  be  big 
enough  to  take  care  of  myself."  He  stamped  his  foot  into  his  driver's 
shoe  and  took  me  by  the  arm,  his  good  humor  apparently  restored. 
"  No,  don't  you  lose  any  hair,  bub;  I'll  get  even  with  Roaring  Dick." 

That  night,  having  by  the  advice  of  the  proprietor  moved  my 
bureau  and  trunk  against  the  bedroom  door,  I  lay  wide  awake  listening 
to  the  taking  of  the  town  apart.  At  each  especially  vicious  crash 
I  wondered  if  that  might  be  Jimmy  Powers  getting  even  with 
Roaring  Dick. 

The  following  year,  but  earlier  in  the  season,  I  again  visited  my 
little  lumber  town.  In  striking  contrast  to  the  life  of  that  other 
mid-summer  day  were  the  deserted  streets.  The  landlord  knew  me, 
and  after  I  had  washed  and  eaten,  approached  me  with  a  suggestion. 

"You  got  all  day  in  front  of  you,"  said  he;  "why  don't  you 
take  a  horse  and  buggy  and  make  a  visit  to  the  big  jam?  Every- 
body's up  there  more  or  less." 

In  response  to  my  inquiry,  he  replied: 

"  They've  jammed  at  the  upper  bend,  jammed  bad.  The  crew's 
been  picking  at  her  for  near  a  week  now,  and  last  night  Darrell  was 
down  to  see  about  some  more  dynamite.  It's  worth  seem'.  The 
breast  of  her  is  near  thirty  foot  high,  and  lots  of  water  in  the  river." 

"  Darrell?  "  said  I,  catching  at  the  name. 

"  Yes.  He's  rear  boss  this  year.  Do  you  think  you'd  like  to 
take  a  look  at  her?  " 

"  I  think  I  should,"  I  assented. 

The  horse  and  I  jogged  slowly  along  a  deep  sand  road,  through 
wastes  of  pine  stumps  and  belts  of  hardwood  beautiful  with  the 
early  spring,  until  finally  we  arrived  at  a  clearing  in  which  stood  two 
huge  tents,  a  mammoth  kettle  slung  over  a  fire  of  logs,  and  drying 
racks  about  the  timbers  of  another  fire.  A  fat  cook  in  the  inevitable 


136  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

battered  derby  hat,  two  bare-armed  cookees,  and  a  chore  "  boy  "  of 
seventy-odd  summers  were  the  only  human  beings  in  sight.  One 
of  the  cookees  agreed  to  keep  an  eye  on  my  ho.rse.  I  picked  my 
way  down  a  well-worn  trail  toward  the  regular  clank,  clank,  click 
of  the  peavies. 

I  emerged  finally  to  a  plateau  elevated  some  fifty  or  sixty  feet 
above  the  river.  A  half-dozen  spectators  were  already  gathered. 
Among  them  I  could  not  but  notice  a  tall,  spare,  broad-shouldered 
young  fellow  dressed  in  a  quiet  business  suit,  somewhat  wrinkled, 
whose  square,  strong,  clean-cut  face  and  muscular  hands  were  tanned 
by  the  weather  to  a  dark  umber-brown.  In  another  moment  I 
looked  down  on  the  jam. 

The  breast,  as  my  landlord  had  told  me,  rose  sheer  from  the  water 
to  the  height  of  at  least  twenty-five  feet,  bristling  and  formidable. 
Back  of  it  pressed  the  volume  of  logs  packed  closely  in  an  apparently 
inextricable  tangle  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach.  A  man  near  in- 
formed me  that  the  tail  was  a  good  three  miles  up  stream.  From 
beneath  this  wonderful  chevaux  de  jrise  foamed  the  current  of  the 
river,  irresistible  to  any  force  less  mighty  than  the  statics  of 
such  a  mass. 

A  crew  of  forty  or  fifty  men  were  at  work.  They  clamped  their 
peavies  to  the  reluctant  timbers,  heaved,  pushed,  slid,  and  rolled 
them  one  by  one  into  the  current,  where  they  were  caught  and 
borne  away.  They  had  been  doing  this  for  a  week.  As  yet  their 
efforts  had  made  but  slight  impression  on  the  bulk  of  the  jam,  but 
some  time,  with  patience,  they  would  reach  the  key-logs.  Then 
the  tangle  would  melt  like  sugar  in  the  freshet,  and  these  imperturb- 
able workers  would  have  to  escape  suddenly  over  the  plunging 
logs  to  shore. 

My  eye  ranged  over  the  men,  and  finally  rested  on  Dickey  Dar- 
rell.  He  was  standing  on  the  slanting  end  of  an  upheaved  log 
dominating  the  scene.  His  little  triangular  face  with  the  accents  of 
the  quadrilateral  eyebrows  was  pale  with  the  blaze  of  his  energy, 
and  his  chipmunk  eyes  seemed  to  flame  with  a  dynamic  vehemence 
that  caused  those  on  whom  their  glance  fell  to  jump  as  though  they 
had  been  touched  with  a  hot  poker.  I  had  heard  more  of  Dickey 
Darrell  since  my  last  visit,  and  was  glad  of  the  chance  to  observe 
Morrison  &  Daly's  best  "  driver  "  at  work. 

The  jam  seemed  on  the  very  edge  of  breaking.    After  half  an 


THE  RIVERMAN  137 

hour's  strained  expectation  it  seemed  still  on  the  very  edge  of  break- 
ing. So  I  sat  down  on  a  stump.  Then  for  the  first  time  I  noticed 
another  acquaintance,  handling  his  peavie  near  the  very  person 
of  the  rear  boss. 

"Hullo,"  said  I  to  myself;  "  that's  funny.  I  wonder  if  Jimmy 
Powers  got  even;  and  if  so,  why  he  is  working  so  amicably  and  so 
near  Roaring  Dick." 

At  noon  the  men  came  ashore  for  dinner.  I  paid  a  quarter  into 
the  cook's  private  exchequer  and  so  was  fed.  After  the  meal  I 
approached  my  acquaintance  of  the  year  before. 

"  Hello,  Powers,"  I  greeted  him;  "  I  suppose  you  don't  remem- 
ber me?  " 

"  Sure,"  he  responded  heartily.  "  Ain't  you  a  little  early 
this  year?  " 

"  No,"  I  disclaimed,  "  this  is  a  better  sight  than  a  birling  match." 

I  offered  him  a  cigar,  which  he  immediately  substituted  for  his 
corncob  pipe.  We  sat  at  the  root  of  a  tree. 

"  It'll  be  a  great  sight  when  that  jam  pulls,"  said  I. 

"You  bet,"  he  replied,  "but  she's  a  teaser.  Even  old  Tim 
Shearer  would  have  a  picnic  to  make  out  just  where  the  key-logs 
are.  We've  started  her  three  times,  but  she's  plugged  tight  every 
trip.  Likely  to  pull  almost  any  time." 

We  discussed  various  topics.    Finally  I  ventured: 

"  I  see  your  old  friend  Darrell  is  rear  boss." 

"  Yes,"  said  Jimmy  Powers,  dryly. 

"  By  the  way,  did  you  fellows  ever  square  up  on  that 
birling  match?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jimmy  Powers;  then  after  an  instant,  "  Not  yet." 

I  glanced  at  him  to  recognize  the  square  set  to  the  jaw  that  had 
impressed  me  so  formidably  the  year  before.  And  again  his  face 
relaxed  almost  quizzically  as  he  caught  sight  of  mine. 

"  Bub,"  said  he,  getting  to  his  feet,  "  those  little  marks  are  on 
my  foot  yet.  And  just  you  tie  into  one  idea:  Dickey  Darrell 's  got 
it  coming."  His  face  darkened  with  a  swift  anger.  I  glimpsed  the 
flare  of  an  undying  hate. 

About  three  o'clock  that  afternoon  Jimmy's  prediction  was  ful- 
filled. Without  the  slightest  warning  the  jam  "  pulled."  ^  Usually 
certain  premonitory  cracks,  certain  sinkings  down,  groanings  for- 
ward, grumblings,  shruggings,  and  sullen,  reluctant  shiftings  of  the 


138  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

logs  give  opportunity  for  the  men  to  assure  their  safety.  This  jam, 
after  inexplicably  hanging  fire  for  a  week,  as  inexplicably  started 
like  a  sprinter  almost  into  its  full  gait.  The  first  few  tiers  toppled 
smash  into  the  current,  raising  a  waterspout  like  that  made  by  a 
dynamite  explosion;  the  mass  behind  plunged  forward  blindly,  rising 
and  falling  as  the  integral  logs  were  up-ended,  turned  over,  thrust 
one  side,  or  forced  bodily  into  the  air  by  the  mighty  power  playing 
jack-straws  with  them. 

The  rivermen,  though  caught  unaware,  reached  either  bank. 
They  held  their  peavies  across  their  bodies  as  balancing-poles,  and 
zig-zagged  ashore  with  a  calmness  and  lack  of  haste  that  were  in 
reality  only  an  indication  of  the  keenness  with  which  they  fore-esti- 
mated each  chance.  Long  experience  with  the  ways  of  saw-logs 
brought  them  out.  They  knew  the  correlation  of  these  many  forces 
just  as  the  expert  billiard-player  knows  instinctively  the  various 
angles  of  incidence  and  reflection  between  his  cue-ball  and  its  mark. 
Consequently,  they  avoided  the  centers  of  eruption,  paused  on  the 
spots  steadied  for  the  moment,  dodged  moving  logs,  trod  those  not  yet 
under  way,  and  so  arrived  on  solid  ground.  The  jam  itself  started 
with  every  indication  of  meaning  business,  gained  momentum  for  a 
hundred  feet,  and  then  plugged  to  a  standstill.  The  "  break " 
was  abortive. 

Now  we  all  had  leisure  to  notice  two  things.  First,  the  movement 
had  not  been  of  the  whole  jam,  as  we  had  at  first  supposed,  but  only 
of  a  block  or  section  of  it  twenty  rods  or  so  in  extent.  Thus  between 
the  part  that  had  moved  and  the  greater  bulk  that  had  not  stirred 
lay  a  hundred  feet  of  open  water  in  which  floated  a  number  of  loose 
logs.  The  second  fact  was  that  Dickey  Darrell  had  fallen  into  that 
open  stretch  of  water  and  was  in  the  act  of  swimming  toward  one  of 
the  floating  logs.  That  much  we  were  given  just  time  to  appreciate 
thoroughly.  Then  the  other  section  of  the  jam  rumbled  and  began 
to  break.  Roaring  Dick  was  caught  between  two  gigantic  mill- 
stones moving  to  crush  him  out  of  sight. 

An  active  figure  darted  down  the  tail  of  the  first  section,  out  over 
the  floating  logs,  seized  Darrell  by  the  coat-collar,  and  so  burdened 
began  desperately  to  scale  the  very  face  of  the  breaking  jam. 

Never  was  a  more  magnificent  rescue.  The  logs  were  rolling, 
falling,  diving  against  the  laden  man.  He  climbed  as  over  a  tread- 
mill, a  treadmill  whose  speed  was  constantly  increasing.  And  when 


THE  RIVERMAN  139 

he  finally  gained  the  top,  it  was  as  the  gap  closed  splintering  beneath 
him  and  the  man  he  had  saved. 

It  is  no.t  in  the  woodsman  to  be  demonstrative  at  any  time,  but 
here  was  work  demanding  attention.  Without  a  pause  for  breath 
or  congratulation  they  turned  to  the  necessity  of  the  moment.  The 
jam,  the  whole  jam,  was  moving  at  last.  Jimmy  Powers  ran  ashore 
for  his  peavie.  Roaring  Dick,  like  a  demon  incarnate,  threw  himself 
into  the  work.  Forty  men  attacked  the  jam  at  a  dozen  places, 
encouraging  the  movement,  twisting  aside  the  timbers  that  threat- 
ened to  lock  anew,  directing  pigmy-like  the  titanic  forces  into  the 
channel  of  their  efficiency.  Roaring  like  wild  cattle  the  logs  swept 
by,  at  first  slowly,  then  with  the  railroad  rush  of  the  curbed  freshet. 
Men  were  everywhere,  taking  chances,  like  cowboys  before  the 
stampeded  herd.  And  so,  out  of  sight  aro.und  the  lower  bend  swept 
the  front  of  the  jam  in  a  swirl  of  glory,  the  rivermen  riding  the  great 
boom  back  of  the  creature  they  subdued,  until  at  last,  with  the 
slackening  current,  the  logs  floated  by  free,  cannoning  with  hollow 
sound  one  against  the  other.  A  half-dozen  watchers,  leaning 
statuesquely  on  the  shafts  of  their  peavies,  watched  the  ordered 
ranks  pass  by. 

One  by  one  the  spectators  departed.  At  last  only  myself  and  the 
brown-faced  young  man  remained.  He  sat  on  a  stump,  staring  with 
sightless  eyes  into  vacancy.  I  did  not  disturb  his  thoughts. 

The  sun  dipped.  A  cool  breeze  of  evening  sucked  up  the  river. 
Over  near  the  cook-camp  a  big  fire  commenced  to  crackle  by  the 
drying  frames.  At  dusk  the  rivermen  straggled  in  from  the  down- 
river trail. 

The  brown-faced  young  man  arose  and  went  to  meet  them.  I 
saw  him  return  in  close  conversation  with  Jimmy  Powers.  Before 
they  reached  us  he  had  turned  away  with  a  gesture  of  farewell. 

Jimmy  Powers  stood  looking  after  him  long  after  his  form  had 
disappeared,  and  indeed  even  after  the  sound  of  his  wheels  had 
died  toward  town.  As  I  approached,  the  riverman  turned  to  me  a 
face  from  which  the  reckless,  contained  self-reliance  of  the  woods- 
worker  had  faded.  It  was  wide  eyed  with  an  almost  awe-stricken 
wonder  and  adoration. 

"  Do  you  know  who  that  is?  "  he  asked  me  in  a  hushed  voice. 
"  That's  Thorpe,  Harry  Thorpe.  And  do  you  know  what  he  said  to 
me  just  now,  me?  He  told  me  he  wanted  me  to  work  in  Camp  One 


140  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

next  winter,  Thorpe's  One.  And  he  told  me  I  was  the  first  man  he 
ever  hired  straight  into  One." 

His  breath  caught  with  something  like  a  sob. 

I  had  heard  of  the  man  and  of  his  methods.  I  knew  he  had  made 
it  a  practice  of  recruiting  for  his  prize  camp  only  from  the  employees 
of  his  other  camps,  that,  as  Jimmy  said,  he  never  "  hired  straight  into 
One."  I  had  heard,  too,  of  his  reputation  among  his  own  and  other 
woodsmen.  But  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  come  into  per- 
sonal contact  with  his  influence.  It  impressed  me  the  more  in  that 
I  had  come  to  know  Jimmy  Powers  and  his  kind. 

"  You  deserve  it,  every  bit,"  said  I.  "  I'm  not  going  to  call  you 
a  hero,  because  that  would  make  you  tired.  What  you  did  this  after- 
noon showed  nerve.  It  was  a  brave  act.  But  it  was  a  better  act 
because  you  rescued  your  enemy,  because  you  forgot  everything  but 
your  common  humanity  when  danger " 

I  broke  off.  Jimmy  was  again  looking  at  me  with  his  ironically 
quizzical  grin. 

"  Bub,"  said  he,  "  if  you're  going  to  hang  any  stars  of  Bethlehem 
on  my  Christmas  tree,  just  call  a  halt  right  here.  I  didn't  rescue  that 
scalawag  because  I  had  any  Christian  sentiments,  nary  bit.  I  was 
just  naturally  savin'  him  for  the  birling  match  next  Fourther  July." 


THE  TOLL  OF  BIG  TIMBER 
BY  BERTRAND  WILLIAM  SINCLAIR 

DAY  came  again,  in  the  natural  sequence  of  events.  Matt,  the 
cook,  roused  all  the  camp  at  six  o'clock  with  a  tremendous  banging 
on  a  piece  of  boiler-plate  hung  by  a  wire.  Long  before  that  Stella 
heard  her  brother  Charlie  astir.  She  wondered  sleepily  at  his 
sprightliness,  for  as  she  remembered  him  at  home  he  had  been  a 
confirmed  lie-abed.  She  herself  responded  none  too  quickly  to  the 
breakfast  gong,  as  a  result  of  which  slowness  the  crew  had  filed 
away  to  the  day's  work,  her  brother  striding  in  the  lead,  when  she 
entered  the  mess-house. 

She  killed  time  with  partial  success  till  noon.  Several  times  she 
was  startled  to  momentary  attention  by  the  prolonged  series  of 
sharp  cracks  which  heralded  the  thunderous  crash  of  a  falling  tree. 
There  were  other  sounds  which  betokened  the  loggers'  activity  in 
the  near-by  forest — the  ringing  whine  of  saw  blades,  the  dull  stroke 
of  the  axe,  voices  calling  distantly. 

She  tried  to  interest  herself  in  the  camp  and  the  beach  and  ended 
up  by  sitting  on  a  log  in  a  shady  spot,  staring  dreamily  over  the 
lake.  She  thought  impatiently  of  that  homely  saw  concerning  Satan 
and  idle  hands,  but  she  reflected  also  that  in  this  isolation  even 
mischief  was  comparatively  impossible.  There  was  not  a  soul  to 
hold  speech  with  except  the  cook,  and  he  was  too  busy  to  talk,  even 
if  he  had  not  been  afflicted  with  a  painful  degree  of  diffidence  when 
she  addressed  him.  She  could  make  no  effort  at  settling  down,  at 
arranging  things  in  what  was  to  be  her  home.  There  was  nothing  to 
arrange,  no  odds  and  ends  wherewith  almost  any  woman  can  conjure 
up  a  homelike  effect  in  the  barest  sort  of  place.  She  beheld  the  noon 
return  of  the  crew  much  as  a  shipwrecked  castaway  on  a  desert 
shore  might  behold  a  rescuing  sail,  and  she  told  Charlie  that  she 
intended  to  go  into  the  woods  that  afternoon  and  watch  them  work. 

"  All  right,"  said  he.  "  Just  so  you  don't  get  in  the  way  of  a 
falling  tree." 

A  narrow  fringe  of  brush  and  scrubby  timber  separated  the  camp 
from  the  actual  work.  From  the  water's  edge  to  the  donkey  engine 

141 


142  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

was  barely  four  hundred  yards.  From  donkey  to  a  ten-foot  jump-off 
on  the  lake  shore  in  a  straight  line  on  a  five  per  cent,  gradient  ran  a 
curious  roadway,  made  by  placing  two  logs  in  the  hollow  scooped 
by  tearing  great  timbers  over  the  soft  earth,  and  a  bigger  log  on  each 
side.  Butt  to  butt  and  side  to  side,  the  outer  sticks  half  their  thick- 
ness above  the  inner,  they  formed  a  continuous  trough,  the  bottom 
and  sides  worn  smooth  with  friction  of  sliding  timbers.  Stella  had 
crossed  it  the  previous  evening  and  wondered  what  it  was.  Now, 
watching  them  at  work,  she  saw.  Also  she  saw  why  the  great  stumps 
that  rose  in  every  clearing  in  this  land  of  massive  trees  were  sawed 
six  and  eight  feet  above  the  ground.  Always  at  the  base  the  firs 
swelled  sharply.  Wherefore  the  falling  gangs  lifted  themselves  above 
the  enlargement  to  make  their  cut. 

Two  sawyers  attacked  a  tree.  First,  with  their  dquble-bitted 
axes,  each  drove  a  deep  notch  into  the  sapwood  just  wide  enough  to 
take  the  end  of  a  two-by-six  plank  four  or  five  feet  long  with  a  single 
grab-nail  in  the  end — the  springboard  of  the  Pacific  coast  logger, 
whose  daily  business  lies  among  the  biggest  timber  on  God's  foot- 
stool. Each  then  clambered  up  on  his  precarious  perch,  took  hold 
of  his  end  of  the  long,  limber  saw,  and  cut  in  to  a  depth  of  a  fopt  or 
more,  according  to  the  size  of  the  tree.  Then  jointly  they  chopped 
down  to  this  sawed  line,  and  there  was  the  undercut  complete",  a  deep 
notch  on  the  side  to  which  the  tree  would  fall.  That  done,  they 
swung  the  ends  of  their  springboards,  or  if  it  were  a  thick  trunk, 
made  new  holding  notches  on  the  other  side,  and  the  long  saw  would 
cut  steadily  through  the  heart  of  the  tree  toward  that  yellow,  gashed 
undercut,  stroke  upon  stroke,  ringing  with  a  thin,  metallic  twang. 
Presently  there  would  arise  an  ominous  cracking.  High  in  the  air 
the  tall  crest  would  dip  slowly,  as  if  it  bowed  with  manifest  reluctance 
to  the  inevitable.  The  sawyers  would  drop  lightly  from  their 
springboards,  crying: 

"  Tim-ber-r-r-r!  " 

The  earthward  sweep  of  the  upper  boughs  would  hasten  till  the 
air  was  full  of  a  whistling,  whishing  sound.  Then  came  the  rending 
crash  as  the  great  tree  smashed  prone,  crushing  what  small  timber 
stood  in  its  path,  followed  by  the  earth-quivering  shock  of  its  impact 
with  the  soil.  The  tree  once  down,  the  fallers  went  on  to  another. 
Immediately  the  swampers  fell  upon  the  prone  trunk  with  axes, 
denuding  it  of  limbs;  the  buckers  followed  them  to  saw  it  into 


THE  TOLL  OF  BIG  TIMBER  143 

lengths  decreed  by  the  boss  logger.  When  the  job  was  done,  the 
brown  fir  was  no  longer  a  stately  tree  but  saw-logs,  each  with  a 
square  butt  that  lay  donkeyward,  trimmed  a  trifle  rounding  with 
the  axe. 

Benton  worked  with  one  falling  gang.  The  falling  gang  raced 
to  keep  ahead  of  the  buckers  and  swampers,  and  they  in  turn  raced  to 
keep  ahead  of  the  hook  tender,  rigging  slinger,  and  donkey,  which 
last  trio  moved  the  logs  from  woods  to  water,  once  they  were  down 
and  trimmed.  Terrible,  devastating  forces  of  destruction  they  seemed 
to  Stella  Benton,  wholly  unused  as  she  was  to  any  woodland  save 
the  well-kept  parks  and  little  areas  of  groomed  forest  in  her  native 
state.  All  about  in  the  ravaged  woods  lay  the  big  logs,  scores  of  them. 
They  had  only  begun  to  pull  with  the  donkey  a  week  earlier,  Benton 
explained  to  her.  With  this  size  gang  he  could  not  keep  a  donkey 
engine  working  steadily.  So  they  had  felled  and  trimmed  to  a  good 
start,  and  now  the  falling  crew  and  the  swampers  and  buckers  were 
in  a  ding-dong  contest  to  see  how  long  they  could  keep  ahead  of 
the  puffing  Seattle  yarder. 

Stella  sat  on  a  stump,  watching.  Over  an  area  of  many  acres 
the  ground  was  a  litter  of  broken  limbs,  ragged  tops,  crushed  and 
bent  and  broken  younger  growth,  twisted  awry  by  the  big  trees  in 
their  fall.  Huge  stumps  up  thrust  like  beacons  in  a  ruffled  harbor, 
grim,  massive  butts..  From  all  the  ravaged  wood  rose  a  pungent 
smell  of  pitch  and  sap,  a  resinous,  pleasant  smell.  Radiating  like  the 
spokes  of  a  wheel  from  the  head  of  the  chute  ran  deep,  raw  gashes 
in  the  earth,  where  the  donkey  had  hauled  up  the  Brobdingnagian 
logs  on  the  end  of  an  inch  cable. 

"  This  is  no  small  boy's  play,  is  it,  Stell?  "  Charlie  said  to  her 
once  in  passing. 

And  she  agreed  that  it  was  not.  Agreed  more  emphatically  and 
with  half-awed  wonder  when  she  saw  the  donkey  puff  and  quiver 
on  its  anchor  cable,  as  the  hauling  line  spooled  up  on  the  drum. 
On  the  outer  end  of  that  line  snaked  a  sixty-foot  stick,  five  feet 
across  the  butt,  but  it  came  down  to  the  chute  head,  brushing  earth 
and  brush  and  small  trees  aside  as  if  they  were  naught.  Once  the 
big  log  caromed  against  a  stump.  The  rearward  end  flipped  ten 
feet  in  the  air  and  thirty  feet  sidewise.  But  it  came  clear  and  slid 
with  incredible  swiftness  to  the  head  of  the  chute,  flinging  aside 
showers  of  dirt  and  small  stones,  and  leaving  one  more  deep  furrow 


144  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

in  the  forest  floor.  Ben  ton  trotted  behind  it.  Once  it  came  to  rest 
well  in  the  chute,  he  unhooked  the  line,  freed  the  choker  (the  short- 
noosed  loop  of  cable  that  slips  over  the  log's  end),  and  the  haul-back 
cable  hurried  the  main  line  back  to  another  log.  Benton  followed, 
and  again  the  donkey  shuddered  on  its  foundation  skids  till  another 
log  lay  in  the  chute,  with  its  end  butted  against  that  which  lay 
before.  One  log  after  another  was  hauled  down  till  half  a  dozen 
rested  there,  elongated  peas  in  a  wooden  pod. 

Then  a  last  big  stick  came  with  a  rush,  bunted  these  others 
powerfully  so  that  they  began  to  slide  with  the  momentum  thus  im- 
parted, slowly  at  first,  then,  gathering  way  and  speed,  they  shot 
down  to  the  lake  and  plunged  to  the  water  over  the  ten-foot  jump-off 
like  a  school  of  breaching  whales. 

All  this  took  time,  vastly  more  time  than  it  takes  in  the  telling. 
The  logs  were  ponderous  masses.  They  had  to  be  maneuvered 
sometimes  between  stumps  and  standing  timber,  jerked  this  way  and 
that  to  bring  them  into  the  clear. 

By  four  o'clock  Benton  and  his  rigging  slinger  had  just  finished 
bunting  their  second  batch  of  logs  down  the  chute.  Stella  watched 
these  Titanic  labors  with  a  growing  interest  and  a  dawning  vision 
of  why  these  men  walked  the  earth  with  that  reckless  swing  of  their 
shoulders.  For  they  were  palpably  masters  in  their  environment. 
They  strove  with  woodsy  giants  and  laid  them  low.  Amid  constant 
dangers  they  sweated  at  a  task  that  shamed  the  seven  labors  of 
Hercules.  Gladiators  they  were  in  a  contest  from  which  they  did 
not  always  emerge  victorious. 

When  Benton  and  his  helper  followed  the  haul-back  line  away 
to  the  domain  of  the  falling  gang  the  last  time,  Stella  had  so  far 
unbent  as  to  strike  up  conversation  with  the  donkey  engineer.  That 
greasy  individual  finished  stoking  his  fire-box  and  replied  to  her 
first  comment. 

"  Work?  You  bet,"  said  he.  "It's  real  graft,  this  is.  I  got  the 
easy  end  of  it,  and  mine's  no  snap.  I  miss  a  signal,  big  stick  butts 
against  something  solid;  biff!  goes  the  line  and  maybe  cuts  a  man 
plumb  in  two.  You  got  to  be  wide  awake  when  you  run  a  loggin' 
donkey.  These  woods  is  no  place  for  a  man,  anyway,  if  he  ain't  spry 
both  in  his  head  and  feet." 

"  Do  many  men  get  hurt  logging?  "  Stella  asked.  "  It  looks 
awfully  dangerous,  with  these  big  trees  falling  and  smashing  every- 
thing. Look  at  that.  Goodness!  " 


THE  TOLL  OF  BIG  TIMBER  145 

From  the  donkey  they  could  see  a  shower  of  ragged  splinters  and 
broken  limbs  fly  when  a  two-hundred-foot  fir  smashed  a  dead  cedar 
that  stood  in  the  way  of  its  downward  swoop.  They  could  hear  the 
pieces  strike  against  brush  and  trees  like  the  patter  of  shot  on  a 
tin  wall. 

The  donkey  engineer  gazed  calmly  enough. 

"  Them  flyin'  chunks  raise  the  dickens  sometimes,"  he  observed. 
"  Oh,  yes,  now  an'  then  a  man  gets  laid  out.  There's  some  things 
you  got  to  take  a  chance  on.  Maybe  you  get  cut  with  an  axe,  or  a 
limb  drops  on  you,  or  you  get  in  the  way  of  a  breakin'  line — though 
a  man  ain't  got  any  business  in  the  bight  of  a  line.  A  man  don't 
stand  much  show  when  the  end  of  a  inch'n'  a  quarter  cable  snaps  at 
him  like  a  whiplash.  I  seen  a  feller  on  Howe  Sound  cut  square  in  two 
with  a  cable-end  once.  A  broken  block's  the  worst,  though!  That 
generally  gets  the  riggin'  slinger,  but  a  piece  of  it's  liable  to  hit 
anybody.  You  see  them  big  iron  pulley  blocks  the  haul-back  cable 
works  in?  Well,  sometimes  they  have  to  anchor  a  snatch  block  to 
a  stump  an'  run  the  main  line  through  it  at  an  angle  to  get  a  log  out 
the  way  you  want.  Suppose  the  block  breaks  when  I'm  givin'  it  to 
her?  Chunks  of  that  broken  cast  iron'll  fly  like  bullets.  Yes,  sir, 
broken  blocks  is  bad  business.  Maybe  you  noticed  the  boys  used 
the  snatch  block  two  or  three  times  this  afternoon?  We've  been 
lucky  in  this  camp  all  spring.  Nobody  so  much  as  nicked  himself 
with  an  axe.  Breaks  in  the  gear  don't  come  very  often,  anyway, 
with  an  outfit  in  first-class  shape.  We  got  good  gear  an'  a  good  crew 
— about  as  skookum  a  bunch  as  I  ever  saw  in  the  woods." 

Two  hundred  yards  distant  Charlie  Benton  rose  on  a  stump  and 
semaphored  with  his  arms.  The  engineer  whistled  answer  and  stood 
to  his  levers;  the  main  line  began  to  spool  slowly  in  on  the  drum. 
Another  signal,  and  he  shut  off.  Another  signal,  after  a  brief  wait, 
and  the  drum  rolled  faster,  the  line  tautened  like  a  fiddlestring,  and 
the  ponderous  machine  vibrated  with  the  strain  of  its  effort. 

Suddenly  the  line  came  slack.  Stella,  watching  for  the  log  to 
appear,  saw  her  brother  leap  backward  off  the  stump,  saw  the  cable 
whip  sidewise,  mowing  down  a  clump  of  saplings  that  stood  in  the 
bight  of  the  line,  before  the  engineer  could  shut  off  the  power.  In 
that  return  of  comparative  silence  there  rose  above  the  sibilant  hiss  of 
the  blow-off  valve  a  sudden  commotion  of  voices. 

The  donkey  engineer  peered  over  the  brush.    "  That  don't  sound 
good.    I  guess  somebody  got  it  in  the  neck." 
10 


146  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Almost  immediately  Sam  Davis  and  two  other  men  came  running. 

"  What's  up?  "  the  engineer  called  as  they  passed  on  a  dog  trot. 

"  Block  broke,"  Davis  answered  over  his  shoulder.  "  Piece  of 
it  near  took  a  leg  off  Jim  Renfrew." 

Stella  stood  for  a  moment,  hesitating. 

"  I  may  be  able  to  do  something.    I'll  go  and  see,"  she  said. 

"  Better  not,"  the  engineer  warned.  "  Liable  to  run  into  some- 
thing that'll  about  turn  your  stomach.  What  was  I  tellin'  about  a 
broken  block?  Them  ragged  pieces  of  flyin'  iron  sure  mess  a  man  up. 
They'll  bring  a  bed  spring,  an'  pack  him  down  to  the  boat,  an'  get 
him  to  a  doctor  quick  as  they  can.  That's  all.  You  couldn't 
do  nothin'." 

Nevertheless  she  went.  Renfrew  was  the  rigging  slinger  working 
with  Charlie,  a  big,  blond  man  who  blushed  like  a  schoolboy  when 
Benton  introduced  him  to  her.  Twenty  minutes  before  he  had  gone 
trotting  after  the  haul-block,  sound  and  hearty,  laughing  at  some 
sally  of  her  brother's.  It  seemed  a  trifle  incredible  that  he  should 
lie  mangled  and  bleeding  among  the  green  forest  growth,  while  his 
fellows  hurried  for  a  stretcher. 

Two  hundred  yards  at  right  angles  from  where  Charlie  had  stood 
giving  signals  she  found  a  little  group  under  a  branchy  cedar.  Ren- 
frew lay  on  his  back,  mercifully  unconscious.  Benton  squatted  beside 
him,  twisting  a  silk  handkerchief  with  a  stick  tightly  above  the 
wound.  His  hands  and  Renfrew's  clothing  and  the  mossy  ground 
were  smeared  with  blood.  Stella  looked  over  his  shoulder.  The 
overalls  were  cut  away.  In  the  thick  of  the  man's  thigh  stood  a 
ragged  gash  she  could  have  laid  both  hands  in.  She  drew  back. 

Benton  looked  up. 

"  Better  keep  away,"  he  advised  shortly.  "  We've  done  all  that 
can  be  done." 

She  retreated  a  little  and  sat  down  on  a  root  half-sickened.  The 
other  two  men  stood  up.  Benton  sat  back,  his  first-aid  work  done, 
and  rolled  a  cigarette  with  fingers  that  shook  a  little.  Off  to  one 
side  she  saw  the  fallers  climb  up  on  their  springboards.  Presently 
arose  the  ringing  whine  of  the  thin  steel  blade,  the  chuck  of  axes 
where  the  swampers  attacked  a  fallen  tree.  No  matter,  she  thought, 
that  injury  came  to  one,  that  death  might  hover  near,  the  work  went 
on  apace,  like  action  on  a  battle-field. 


COTTON  AND  THE  OLD  SOUTH 
BY  JAMES  A.  B.  SCHERER 

ROBERT  FULTON,  a  friend  of  both  Whitney  and  Cartwright,  by 
applying  the  steam-engine  of  Watt  to  override  the  immense  ocean 
barrier  dividing  the  gin  from  the  home  of  the  power-loom,  manifolded 
a  thousand  times  over  the  carrying  power  of  the  ships;  while 
Samuel  Slater,  the  British  spinner,  by  setting  up  from  memory  at 
Pawtucket  a  successful  factory  just  three  years  before  Whitney 
invented  his  gin,  initiated  in  New  England  a  demand  for  Southern 
cotton  second  only  to  that  of  the  old  England  from  which  he  had  fled. 
It  is  little  wonder  that  the  South  devoted  itself  thenceforward  with 
undivided  attention  to  the  production  of  that  precious  commodity 
for  which  two  continents  clamored,  and  which  the  South  alone 
could  supply. 

Certainly  the  life  of  the  South  from  this  time  forward  revolved 
around  the  cotton  plant.  Early  in  the  spring  the  negroes  with  their 
multitudinous  mules  begin  the  plowing  of  straight,  long,  deep  fur- 
rows in  the  fragrant  mellow  soil — the  deeper  the  better,  since  cotton 
has  a  tap-root  which,  if  properly  invited,  will  sink  four  feet  in 
searching  for  fresh  food  and  moisture.  Fertilizer,  consisting  of 
manure  and  malodorous  guano,  or,  in  later  times,  expensive  phos- 
phates, is  laid  in  the  center  of  the  beds  thrown  up  by  the  furrows; 
and  the  time  of  actual  planting  awaited.  When  first  the  song  of  the 
"  turtle  dove  "  is  heard,  and  the  starry  blooms  of  the  dogwood  light 
up  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  the  frosts  are  thought  to  be  over,  come, 
in  the  old  days,  flocks  of  black  women  with  hoes,  scooping  out  the 
beds  at  rough  intervals,  followed  by  other  women  dropping  careless 
handfuls  of  seed.  The  tender  green  plants,  thrusting  their  way 
upward  shortly,  were  thinned  out,  one  stalk  to  a  foot.  When  two  or 
three  weeks  above  the  surface,  more  plowing  was  needful,  to  break 
the  new  crust  of  the  soil,  and  kill  weeds.  Then,  every  three  weeks 
thereafter,  until  the  steaming  "  dog  days "  again  of  August,  the 
patient  plow  would  break  the  crust  again  and  again,  so  that  on  the 
larger  plantations  the  plows  never  ceased,  but  turned  continually 
from  the  last  furrows  of  far-stretching  acres  to  break  the  first  furrows 

147 


148  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

of  another  three  weeks'  task.  Hoeing,  meanwhile,  kept  the  women 
busy  with  the  grass  and  weeds.  In  early  August  the  crop  was  "  laid 
by,"  and  required  no  more  work  till  picking  time. 

Meanwhile,  under  proper  conditions  this  incessant  labor  would 
transform  the  fields  into  flower  gardens.  By  June  the  beautiful  blos- 
soms are  blushing;  bell-shaped  and  softly  brilliant,  here  and  there, 
with  the  magic  trick  of  changing  their  colors,  as  a  maid  her  clothes. 
Shimmering  in  the  morning  in  a  creamy  white  or  pale  straw  dress, 
and  closing  its  silky  petals  in  the  evening,  the  flower  on  the  second 
day  of  its  fragile  life  shifts  to  a  wild-rose  color,  deepening  by  evening 
to  magenta  or  carnation:  all  this,  for  three  brief  but  brilliant  days, 
on  graceful  stems  knee-high,  rich  in  glossy  dark  green  foliage;  so  that 
the  aspect  of  a  spacious  level  field,  with  fresh  blossoms  budding  into 
cream  or  cloth  of  gold,  while  elder  sisters  smile  in  pink  and  red 
amidst  the  trembling  verdure,  is  of  a  splendid  variegated  beauty  that 
lends  to  the  Southern  landscape  half  its  charm.  It  is  in  this  summer 
season  the  Southern  children  sing: 

First  day  white,  next  day  red, 
Third  day  from  my  birth  I'm  dead ; 
Though  I  am  of  short  duration, 
Yet  withal  I  clothe  the  nation. 

From  mid-August  until  winter,  however,  and  especially  in  that 
"  season  of  mellow  fruitfulness,"  October,  the  cotton  shrub  becomes 
a  thing  of  wonder;  adding  to  its  garniture  of  bloom  the  bursting 
pods  of  snowy  fleece  that  dominate  the  coloring  of  the  fields  into  the 
semblance  of  a  vegetative  snowstorm.  Then,  on  the  old  plantation, 
swarmed  forth  pickaninnies  and  black  babes  in  arms,  with  bags  and 
huge  baskets  and  mirth,  nimble  fingers,  as  it  were,  predestined  to  the 
cotton  pod,  to  live  in  the  sunshine  amid  the  fleecy  snow,  and  pile 
up  white  fluffy  mounds  at  the  furrows'  ends,  chanting  melodies, 
minor  chords  of  song  as  old  as  Africa;  the  women  troop  home  again 
at  nightfall  with  poised  overflowing  baskets  on  their  heads,  to 
feasts  of  corn-pone  and  cracklin'  and  molasses  in  the  blaze  of  a 
light'ood  fire,  within  sound  of  the  thrumming  of  the  banjo. 

Cotton  was  and  is  the  Southern  "  money  crop."  From  autumn 
the  banker  and  merchant  "  carry  "  the  South  on  their  ledgers,  and 
scant  is  the  interchange  of  coin;  but  when  the  "  first  bale  of  cotton  " 
rolls  into  town  behind  a  jangling  team  of  trotting  mules,  their  grin- 


COTTON  AND  THE  OLD  SOUTH  149 

ning  driver  cracking  out  resounding  triumph  with  his  whip,  money 
makes  its  anniversary  appearance,  accounts  are  settled,  and  the 
whole  shining  South  "  feels  Flush."  The  gin-houses  drive  a  roaring 
business,  the  air  is  heavy  in  them  and  the  light  is  thick  with  downy 
lint,  and  their  atmosphere  pungent  with  the  oily  odor  of  crushed 
woolly  seeds.  Steam  or  hydraulic  presses,  with  irresistible  power, 
then  pack  towering  heaps  of  seedless  fleece  into  coarse  casings  of 
flimsy  jute  wrapping,  metal-bound.  These  bales,  weighing  roughly 
to  the  tale  of  five  hundred  pounds,  pass  the  appraisement  of  the 
broker,  swarm  the  platforms  of  the  railway  warehouses  and  over- 
flow to  the  hospitable  ground;  then  are  laden  laboriously  into  freight 
cars,  and,  after  being  squeezed  to  the  irreducible  minimum  of  size 
by  some  giant  compress,  are  hauled  to  the  corners  of  the  earth. 

Of  the  distinctive  civilization  of  the  old  Southern  cotton  life  no 
words  could  be  more  pertinent  than  Grady's. 

"  That  was  a  peculiar  society,"  he  said.  "  Almost  feudal  in  its 
splendor,  it  was  almost  patriarchal  in  its  simplicity.  Leisure  and 
wealth  gave  it  exquisite  culture.  Its  wives  and  mothers,  exempt  from 
drudgery  and  almost  from  care,  gave  to  their  sons,  through  patient 
and  constant  training,  something  of  their  own  grace  and  gentleness, 
and  to  their  homes  beauty  and  light.  Its  people,  homogeneous  by 
necessity,  held  straight  and  simple  faith,  and  were  religious  to  a 
marked  degree  along  the  old  lines  of  Christian  belief.  The  same 
homogeneity  bred  a  hospitality  that  was  as  kinsmen  to  kinsmen, 
and  wasted  at  the  threshold  of  every  home  what  the  more  frugal 
people  of  the  North  conserved  and  invested  in  public  charities. 
Money  counted  least  in  making  the  social  status  and  constantly 
ambitious  and  brilliant  youngsters  from  no  estate  married  into 
families  of  planter  princes.  Meanwhile,  the  one  character  utterly 
condemned  and  ostracized  was  the  man  who  was  mean  to  his  slaves. 
Even  the  coward  was  pitied  and  might  have  been  liked.  For  the 
cruel  master  there  was  no  toleration. 

"  In  its  engaging  grace — in  the  chivalry  that  tempered  even 
Quixotism  with  dignity — in  the  piety  that  saved  master  and  slave 
alike — in  the  charity  that  boasted  not — in  the  honor  held  above  estate 
— in  the  hospitality  that  neither  condescended  nor  cringed — in  frank- 
ness and  heartiness  and  wholesome  comradeship — in  the  reverence 
paid  to  womanhood  and  the  inviolable  respect  in  which  woman's 


150  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

name  was  held — the  civilization  of  the  old  slave  regime  in  the  South 
has  not  been  surpassed,  and  perhaps  will  not  be  equaled,  among  men." 
During  the  season  between  the  two  cotton  crops,  "  Southern  hos- 
pitality "  touches  its  climax.  With  leisure  and  money  at  command, 
the  "  big  house  "  of  the  old  plantation  threw  wide  its  welcoming  doors 
across  the  fields,  or  stalked  the  deer  amid  the  swamps,  or  hunted  the 
wild  duck  and  turkey  and  whistling  coveys  of  quail  (called  pa'tridges) 
while  the  women  spread  the  damask  in  the  evening,  and  laid  out  the 
family  silver  to  grace  a  savory  feast  that  has  no  counterpart  in  all 
the  world:  fried  chicken  and  corn  pone  and  yams,  possum,  and  the 
esoteric  dainties  of  the  freshly  slaughtered  pig,  heaps  of  snowy,  steam- 
ing, home-grown  rice,  slices  of  delicate  peanut-fed  ham,  teased  with 
the  contrasting  exquisite  flavors  of  quince  and  crab-apple  jellies, 
watermelon  "  preserves,"  "  cookies "  and  tarts  and  spiced 
brandy  peaches! 


L'ABREUVOIR.    BY  CONSTANTIN  MEUNIER 


THE  COTTON-PICKER 
BY  CARL  HOLLIDAY 

Behold,  amid  the  rows  of  gleaming  white, 
The  heedless  negro  sings,  and  stoops  to  pluck 
The  fleecy  boll.    Beneath  the  glaring  light 
Of  Southern  skies,  all  thoughtless  of  the  luck 
That  lifts  or  fells  earth's  kingdoms  and  her  men, 
He  onward  goes  across  the  far-stretched  fields, 
And  sings  and  bends  and  sings  and  bends  again, 
Heaping  the  fluffy  load.    Oh,  power  that  wields! 
What  might  this  common  worker  of  the  soil 
Who  grapples  with  the  silent  dust  for  bread 
Doth  hold  within  those  fingers!     Stooped  with  toil, 
With  every  bend  he  spins  a  mighty  thread 
That  reaching  forth  doth  hold  the  waiting  earth 
In  bonds  as  strong  as  is  her  common  dearth. 


From  The  Cotton  Picker  and  Other  Poems,  by  Carl  Holliday.    Copy- 
right, 1907,  by  The  Neale  Publishing  Co. 

151 


AN  APIARY 
BY  MAURICE  MAETERLINCK 

I  HAVE  not  yet  forgotten  the  first  apiary  I  saw.  It  was  many  years 
ago,  in  a  large  village  of  Dutch  Flanders,  the  sweet  and  pleasant 
country  whose  love  for  brilliant  color  rivals  that  of  Zealand  even,  the 
concave  mirror  of  Holland;  a  country  that  gladly  spreads  out  before 
us,  as  so  many  pretty,  thoughtful  toys,  her  illuminated  gables,  and 
waggons,  and  towers;  her  cupboards  and  clocks  that  gleam  at  the  end 
of  the  passage;  her  little  trees  marshalled  in  line  along  quays  and 
canal-banks,  waiting,  one  almost  might  think,  for  some  quiet,  benefi- 
cent ceremony;  her  boats  and  her  barges  with  sculptured  poops,  her 
flower-like  doors  and  windows,  immaculate  dams,  and  elaborate  many- 
colored  drawbridges;  and  her  little  varnished  houses,  bright  as  new 
pottery,  from  which  bell-shaped  dames  come  forth,  all  a-glitter  with 
silver  and  gold,  to  milk  the  cows  in  the  whitehedged  fields,  or  spread 
the  linen  on  flowery  lawns,  cut  into  patterns  of  oval  or  lozenge,  and 
most  astoundingly  green. 

To  this  spot,  a  sort  of  aged  philosopher  had  retired.  His  hap- 
piness lay  all  in  the  beauties  of  his  garden;  and  best-loved  and  visited 
most  often,  was  the  apiary,  composed  of  twelve  domes  of  straw,  some 
of  which  he  had  painted  a  bright  pink,  and  some  a  clear  yellow,  but 
most  of  all  a  tender  blue. 

These  hives  stood  against  the  wall  of  the  house,  in  the  angle 
formed  by  one  of  those  pleasant  and  graceful  Dutch  kitchens  whose 
earthenware  dresser,  all  bright  with  copper  and  tin,  reflected  itself 
through  the  open  door  on  to  the  peaceful  canal.  And  the  water  led 
one's  eyes  to  a  calm  horizon  of  mills  and  of  meadows. 

Here,  as  in  all  places,  the  hives  lent  a  new  meaning  to  the 
flowers  and  the  silence,  the  balm  of  the  air  and  the  rays  of  the  sun. 


152 


SAP-TIME 

A  NEW  JONATHAN  STORY 

BY  ELISABETH  WOODBRIDGE 

IT  was  a  little  tree-toad  that  began  it.  In  a  careless  moment  he 
had  come  down  to  the  bench  that  connects  the  big  maple  tree  with 
the  old  locust  stump,  and  when  I  went  out  at  dusk  to  wait  for 
Jonathan,  there  he  sat,  in  plain  sight.  A  few  experimental  pokes  sent 
him  back  to  the  tree,  and  I  studied  him  there,  marveling  at  the  way 
he  assimilated  with  its  bark.  As  Jonathan  came  across  the  grass  I 
called  softly,  and  pointed  to  the  tree. 

"  Well?  "  he  said. 

"  Don't  you  see?  " 

"  No.     What?  " 

"  Look — I  thought  you  had  eyesl  " 

"  Oh,  what  a  little  beauty!  " 

"  And  isn't  his  back  just  like  bark  and  lichens!  And  what  are 
those  things  in  the  tree  beside  him?  " 

"  Plugs,  I  suppose." 

"  Plugs?  " 

"  Yes.  After  tapping.  Uncle  Ben  used  to  tap  these  trees, 
I  believe." 

"  You  mean  for  sap?    Maple  syrup?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Jonathan!     I  didn't  know  these  were  sugar  maples." 

"  Oh,  yes.    These  on  the  road." 

"  The  whole  row?  Why,  there  are  ten  or  fifteen  of  them!  And 
you  never  told  me!  " 

"  I  thought  you  knew." 

"  Knew!  I  don't  know  anything — I  should  think  you'd  know 
that,  by  this  time.  Do  you  suppose,  if  I  had  known,  I  should  have 
let  all  these  years  go  by — oh,  dear — think  of  all  the  fun  we've  missed! 
And  syrup!  " 

"  You'd  have  to  come  up  in  February." 

"  Well,  then,  I'll  come  in  February.  Who's  afraid  of  February?  " 

153 


154  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  All  right.    Try  it  next  year." 

I  did.  But  not  in  February.  Things  happened,  as  things  do,  and 
it  was  early  April  before  I  gqt  to  the  farm.  But  it  had  been  a 
wintry  March,  and  the  farmers  told  me  that  the  sap  had  not  been 
running  except  for  a  few  days  in  a  February  thaw.  Anyway,  it  was 
worth  trying. 

Jonathan  could  not  come  with  me.  He  was  to  join  me  later. 
But  Hiram  found  a  bundle  of  elder  spouts  in  the  attic,  and  with 
these  and  an  auger  we  went  out  along  the  snowy,  muddy  road.  The 
hole  was  bored — a  pair  of  them — in  the  first  tree,  and  the  spouts 
driven  in.  I  knelt,  watching — in  fact,  peering  up  the  spout-hole  to  see 
what  might  happen.  Suddenly  a  drop,  dim  with  sawdust,  appeared 
—gathered,  hesitated,  then  ran  down  gayly  and  leapt  off  the  end. 

"Look!    Hiram!    I  t's  running  1"  I  called. 

Hiram,  boring  the  next  tree,  made  no  response.  He  evidently 
expected  it  to  run.  Jonathan  would  have  acted  just  like  that,  too,  I 
felt  sure.  Is  it  a  masculine  quality,  I  wonder,  to  be  unmoved  when 
the  theoretically  expected  becomes  actual?  Or  is  it  that  some  tem- 
peraments have  naturally  a  certain  large  confidence  in  the  sway  of 
law,  and  refuse  to  wonder  at  its  individual  workings?  To  me  the 
individual  workings  give  an  ever  fresh  thrill  because  they  bring  a  new 
realization  of  the  mighty  powers  behind  them.  It  seems  to  depend 
on  which  end  you  begin  at. 

But  though  the  little  drops  thrilled  me,  I  was  not  beyond  setting 
a  pail  underneath  to  catch  them.  And  as  Hiram  went  on  boring,  I 
followed  with  my  pails.  Pails,  did  I  say?  Pails  by  courtesy.  There 
were,  indeed,  a  few  real  pails — berry-pails,  lard-pails,  and  water- 
pails — but  for  the  most  part  the  sap  fell  into  pitchers,  or  tin  sauce- 
pans, stew-kettles  of  aluminum  or  agate  ware,  blue  and  gray  and 
white  and  mottled,  or  big  yellow  earthenware  bowls.  It  was  a  strange 
collection  of  receptacles  that  lined  the  roadside  when  we  had  finished 
our  progress.  As  I  looked  along  the  row,  I  laughed,  and  even 
Hiram  smiled. 

But  what  next?  Every  utensil  in  the  house  was  out  here,  sitting 
in  the  road.  There  was  nothing  left  but  the  wash-boiler.  Noxv,  I 
had  heard  tales  of  amateur  syrup-boilings,  and  I  felt  that  the  wash- 
boiler  would  not  do.  Besides,  I  meant  to  work  outdoors — no  kitchen 
stove  for  me!  I  must  have  a  pan,  a  big,  flat  pan.  I  flew  to  the  tele- 
phone, and  called  up  the  village  plumber,  three  miles  away.  Could 


SAP-TIME  155 

he  build  me  a  pan?  Oh,  say,  two  feet  by  three  feet,  and  five  inches 
high — yes,  right  away.  Yes,  Hiram  would  call  for  it  in  the  afternoon. 

I  felt  better.  And  now  for  a  fireplace!  Oh,  Jonathan!  Why 
did  you  have  to  be  away!  For  Jonathan  loves  a  stone  and  knows 
how  to  put  stones  together,  as  witness  the  stone  "  Eyrie  "  and  the 
stile  in  the  lane.  However,  there  Jonathan  wasn't.  So  I  went  out 
into  the  swampy  orchard  behind  the  house  and  looked  about — no 
lack  of  stones,  at  any  rate.  I  began  to  collect  material,  and  Hiram, 
seeing  my  purpose,  helped  with  the  big  stones.  Somehow  my  fire- 
place got  made — two  side  walls,  one  end  wall,  the  other  end  left  open 
for  stoking.  It  was  not  as  pretty  as  if  Jonathan  had  done  it,  but 
"  'twas  enough,  'twould  serve."  I  collected  firewood,  and  there  I  was, 
ready  for  my  pan,  and  the  afternoon  was  yet  young,  and  the  sap 
was  drip-drip-dripping  from  all  the  spouts.  I  could  begin  to  boil 
next  day.  I  felt  that  I  was  being  borne  along  on  the  providential 
wave  that  so  often  floats  the  inexperienced  to  success. 

That  night  I  emptied  all  my  vessels  into  the  boiler  and  set  them 
out  once  more.  A  neighbor  drove  by  and  pulled  up  to  comment 
benevolently  on  my  work. 

"  Will  it  run  to-night?  "  I  asked  him. 

"  No — no — 'twon't  run  to-night.  Too  cold.  'T won't  run  any 
to-night.  You  can  sleep  all  right." 

This  was  pleasant  to  hear.  There  was  a  moon,  to  be  sure,  but  it 
was  growing  colder,  and  at  the  idea  of  crawling  along  that  road  in 
the  middle  of  the  night  even  my  enthusiasm  shivered  a  little. 

So  I  made  my  rounds  at  nine,  in  the  white  moonlight,  and  went 
to  sleep. 

I  was  awakened  the  next  morning  to  a  consciousness  of  flooding 
sunshine  and  Hiram's  voice  outside  my  window. 

"  Got  anything  I  can  empty  sap  into?  I've  got  everything  all 
filled  up." 

"  Sap!     Why,  it  isn't  running  yet,  is  it?  " 

"  Pails  were  flowin'  over  when  I  came  out." 

"  Flowing  over!     They  said  the  sap  wouldn't  run  last  night." 

"  I  guess  there  don't  nobody  know  when  sap'll  run  and  when  it 
won't,"  said  Hiram  peacefully,  as  he  tramped  off  to  the  barn. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  was  outdoors.  Sure  enough,  Hiram  had  every- 
thing full— old  boilers,  feed-pails,  water-pails.  But  we  found  some 
three-gallon  milk  cans  and  used  them.  A  farm  is  like  a  city.  There 


156  THE  WORKER,  AND  HIS  WORK 

are  always  things  enough  in  it  for  all  purposes.  It  is  only  a  question 
of  using  its  resources. 

Then,  in  the  clear  April  sunshine,  I  went  out  and  surveyed  the 
row  of  maples.  How  they  did  drip!  Some  of  them  almost  ran.  I 
felt  as  if  I  had  turned  on  the  faucets  of  the  universe  and  didn't 
know  how  to  turn  them  off  again. 

However,  there  was  my  new  pan.  I  set  it  over  my  oven  walls  and 
began  to  pour  in  sap.  Hiram  helped  me.  He  seemed  to  think  he 
needed  his  feed-pails.  We  poured  in  sap  and  we  poured  in  sap. 
Never  did  I  see  anything  hold  so  much  as  that  pan.  Even  Hiram 
was  stirred  out  of  his  usual  calm  to  remark,  "  It  beat  all,  how  much 
that  holds."  Of  course,  Jonathan  would  have  had  its  capacity  all 
calculated  the  day  before,  but  my  methods  are  empirical,  and  so  I 
was  surprised  as  well  as  pleased  when  all  my  receptacles  emptied  them- 
selves into  its  shallow  breadths  and  still  there  was  a  good  inch 
to  allow  for  boiling  up.  Yes,  Providence — my  exclusive  little  fool's 
Providence — was  with  me.  The  pan,  and  the  oven,  were  a  success, 
and  when  Jonathan  came  that  night  I  led  him  out  with  unconcealed 
pride  and  showed  him  the  pan — now  a  heaving,  frothing  mass  of 
sap-about-to-be-syrup,  sending  clouds  of  white  steam  down  the  wind. 
As  he  looked  at  the  oven  walls,  I  fancied  his  fingers  ached  to  get  at 
them,  but  he  offered  no  criticism,  seeing  that  they  worked. 

The  next  day  began  overcast,  but  Providence  was  merely  pre- 
paring for  me  a  special  little  gift  in  the  form  of  a  miniature  snow- 
storm. It  was  quite  real  while  it  lasted.  It  whitened  the  grass  and 
the  road,  it  piled  itself  softly  among  the  clusters  of  swelling  buds  on 
the  apple  trees,  and  made  the  orchard  look  as  though  it  had  burst  into 
bloom  in  an  hour.  Then  the  sun  came  out,  there  were  a  few  dazzling 
moments  when  the  world  was  all  blue  and  silver,  and  then  the 
whiteness  faded. 

And  the  sap!  How  it  dripped!  Once  an  hour  I  had  to  make 
the  rounds,  bringing  back  gallons  each  time,  and  the  fire  under  my 
pan  was  kept  up  so  that  the  boiling  down  might  keep  pace  with 
the  new  supply. 

"  They  do  say  snow  makes  it  run,"  shouted  a  passer-by,  and 
another  called,  "  You  want  to  keep  skimmin'!  "  Whereupon  I  seized 
my  long-handled  skimmer  and  fell  to  work.  Southern  Connecticut 
does  not  know  much  about  syrup,  but  by  the  avenue  of  the  road  I 
was  gradually  accumulating  such  wisdom  as  it  possessed. 


SAP-TIME  157 

The  syrup  was  made.  No  worse  accident  befell  than  the  occa- 
sional overflowing  of  a  pail  too  long  neglected.  The  syrup  was  made, 
and  bottled,  and  distributed  to  friends,  and  was  the  pride  of  the 
household  through  the  year. 

"  This  time  I  will  go  early,"  I  said  to  Jonathan;  "  they  say  the 
late  running  is  never  quite  so  good." 

It  was  early  March  when  I  got  up  there  this  time — early  March 
after  a  winter  whose  rigor  had  known  practically  no  break.  Again 
Jonathan  could  not  come,  but  cousin  Janet  could,  and  we  met  at  the 
little  station,  where  Hiram  was  waiting  with  Kit  and  the  surrey.  The 
sun  was  warm,  but  the  air  was  keen  and  the  woods  hardly  showed 
spring  at  all  yet,  even  in  that  first  token  of  it,  the  slight  thickening 
of  their  millions  of  little  tips,  through  the  swelling  of  the  buds.  The 
city  trees  already  showed  this,  but  the  country  ones  still  kept  their 
wintry  penciling  of  vanishing  lines. 

Spring  was  in  the  road,  however.  "  There  ain't  no  bottom  to  this 
road  now,  it's  just  dropped  clean  out,"  remarked  a  fellow-teamster 
as  we  wallowed  along  companionably  through  the  woods.  But,  some- 
how, we  reached  the  farm.  Again  we  bored  our  holes,  and  again  I 
was  thrilled  as  the  first  bright  drops  slipped  out  and  jeweled  the  ends 
of  the  spouts.  I  watched  Janet.  She  was  interested  but  calm,  class- 
ing herself  at  once  with  Hiram  and  Jonathan.  We  unearthed  last 
year's  oven  and  dug  out  its  inner  depths — leaves  and  dirt  and  apples 
and  ashes — it  was  like  excavating  through  the  seven  Troys  to  get  to 
bottom.  We  brought  down  the  big  pan,  now  clothed  in  the  honors 
of  a  season's  use,  and  cleaned  off  the  cobwebs  incident  to  a  year's 
sojourn  in  the  attic.  By  sunset  we  had  a  panful  of  syrup  boiling 
merrily  and  already  taking  on  a  distinctly  golden  tinge.  We  tasted 
it.  It  was  very  syrupy.  Letting  the  fire  die  down,  we  went  in  to 
get  supper  in  the  utmost  content  of  spirit. 

"  It's  so  much  simpler  than  last  year,"  I  said,  as  we  sat  over  our 
cozy  "  tea,"  "  having  the  pan  and  the  oven  ready-made,  and  all — 

"You  don't  suppose  anything  could  happen  to  it  while  we're 
in  here?  "  suggested  Janet.  "  Sha'n't  I  just  run  out  and  see?  " 

"  No,  sit  still.    What  could  happen?    The  fire's  going  out." 

"  Yes,  I  know."    But  her  voice  was  uncertain. 

"  You  see,  I've  been  all  through  it  once,"  I  reassured  her. 

As  we  rose,  Janet  said,  "  Let's  go  out  before  we  do  the  dishes." 


158  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

And  to  humor  her  I  agreed.  We  lighted  the  lantern  and  stepped  out 
on  the  back  porch.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  as  we  looked  off  toward 
the  fireplace  we  saw  gleams  of  red. 

"  How  funny!  "  I  murmured.  "  I  didn't  think  there  was  so 
much  fire  left." 

We  felt  our  way  over,  through  the  yielding  mud  of  the  orchard, 
and  as  I  raised  the  lantern  we  stared  in  dazed  astonishment.  The 
» pan  was  a  blackened  mass,  lit  up  by  winking  red  eyes  of  fire.  I  held 
the  lantern  more  closely.  I  seized  a  stick  and  poked — the  crisp  black 
stuff  broke  and  crumbled  into  an  empty  and  blackening  pan.  A 
curious  odor  arose. 

"  It  couldn't  have!  "  gasped  Janet. 

"  It  couldn't— but  it  has!  "  I  said. 

It  was  a  matter  for  tears,  or  rage,  or  laughter.  And  laughter 
won.  When  we  recovered  a  little  we  took  up  the  black  shell  of  car- 
bon that  had  once  been  syrup- froth;  we  laid  it  gently  beside  the 
oven,  for  a  keepsake.  Then  we  poured  water  in  the  pan,  and  steam 
rose  hissing  to  the  stars. 

"  Does  it  leak?  "  faltered  Janet. 

"  Leak!  "  I  said.  I  was  on  my  knees  now,  watching  the  water 
stream  through  the  parted  seam  of  the  pan  bottom,  down  into  the 
ashes  below. 

"  The  question  is,"  I  went  on  as  I  got  up,  "  did  it  boil  away 
because  it  leaked,  or  did  it  leak  because  it  boiled  away?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  it  matters  much,"  said  Janet.  She  was  showing 
symptoms  of  depression  at  this  point. 

"  It  matters  a  great  deal,"  I  said.  "  Because,  you  see,  we've 
got  to  tell  Jonathan,  and  it  makes  all  the  difference  how  we  put  it." 

"I  see,"  said  Janet;  then  she  added,  experimentally,  "Why 
tell  Jonathan?  " 

"  Why,  Janet,  you  know  better!  I  wouldn't  miss  telling  Jonathan 
for  anything.  What  is  Jonathan  for!  " 

«  Well— of  course,"  she  conceded.    "  Let's  do  dishes." 

We  sat  before  the  fire  that  evening  and  I  read  while  Janet  knitted. 
Between  my  eyes  and  the  printed  page  there  kept  rising  a  vision— 
a  vision  of  black  crust,  with  winking  red  embers  smoldering  along  its 
broken  edges.  I  found  it  distracting  in  the  extreme.  .  .  . 

At  some  time  unknown,  out  of  the  blind  depths  of  the  night,  I 
was  awakened  by  a  voice: 


SAP-TIME  159 

"  It's  beginning  to  rain.  I  think  I'll  just  go  out  and  empty  what's 
near  the  house." 

"  Janet!  "  I  murmured,  "  don't  be  absurd." 

"  But  it  will  dilute  all  that  sap." 

"  There  isn't  any  sap  to  dilute.  It  won't  be  running  at  night." 
After  awhile  the  voice,  full  of  propitiatory  intonations,  resumed: 

"  My  dear,  you  don't  mind  if  I  slip  out.  It  will  only  take 
a  minute." 

"  I  do  mind.    Go  to  sleep!  "    Silence.    Then: 

"  It's  raining  harder.    I  hate  to  think  of  all  that  sap " 

"  You  don't  have  to  think!  "  I  was  quite  savage.  "  Just  go  to 
sleep — and  let  me!  "  Another  silence.  Then  a  fresh  downpour. 
The  voice  was  pleading: 

"  Please  let  me  go !    I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.    And  it's  not  cold." 

"  Oh,  well — I'm  awake  now,  anyway.  I'll  go."  My  voice  was 
tinged  with  that  high  resignation  that  is  worse  than  anger.  Janet's 
tone  changed  instantly: 

u  No,  no!    Don't.    Please  don't!    I'm  going.  I  truly  don't  mind." 

"  I'm  going.    I  don't  mind,  either,  not  at  all." 

"  Oh,  dear!    Then  let's  not  either  of  us  go." 

"  That  was  my  idea  in  the  first  place." 

"  Well,  then,  we  won't.    Go  to  sleep,  and  I  will,  too." 

"  Not  at  all!    I've  decided  to  go." 

"  But  it's  stopped  raining.    Probably  it  won't  rain  any  more." 

"  Then  what  are  you  making  all  this  fuss  for?  " 

"  I  didn't  make  a  fuss.    I  just  thought  I  could  slip  out— 

"  Well,  you  couldn't.  And  it's  raining  very  hard  again.  And 
I'm  going." 

"  Oh,  don't!    You'll  get  drenched." 

"  Of  course.    But  I  can't  bear  to  have  all  that  sap  diluted." 

"  It  doesn't  run  at  night.    You  said  it  didn't." 

"  You  said  it  did." 

"  But  I  don't  really  know.    You  know  best." 

"  Why  didn't  you  think  of  that  sooner?    Anyway,  I'm  going." 

"  Oh,  dear!    You  make  me  feel  as  if  I'd  stirred  you  up — 

"  You  have,"  I  interrupted,  sweetly.  "  I  won't  deny  that  you 
have  stirred  me  up.  But  now  that  you  have  mentioned  it " — I  felt 
for  a  match — "  now  that  you  have  mentioned  it,  I  see  that  this  was 


160  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  one  thing  needed  to  make  my  evening  complete,  or  perhaps  it's 
morning — I  don't  know." 

We  found  the  dining-room  warm,  and  soon  we  were  equipped  in 
those  curious  compromises  of  vesture  that  people  adopt  under  such 
circumstances,  and,  with  lantern  and  umbrella,  we  fumbled  our  way 
out  to  the  trees.  The  rain  was  driving  in  sheets,  and  we  plodded  up 
the  road  in  the  yellow  circle  of  lantern-light  wavering  uncertainly 
over  the  puddles,  while  under  our  feet  the  mud  gave  and  sucked. 

"  If  s  diluted,  sure  enough,"  I  said,  as  we  emptied  the  pails.  We 
crawled  slowly  back,  with  our  heavy  milk-can  and  sap-and-rain- 
water,  and  went  in. 

The  warm  dining-room  was  pleasant  to  return  to,  and  we  sat  down 
to  cookies  and  milk,  feeling  almost  cozy. 

"I've  always  wanted  to  know  how  it  would  be  to  go  out  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  this  way,"  I  remarked,  "  and  now  I  know." 

"  Aren't  you  hateful!  "  said  Janet. 

"  Not  at  all.  Just  appreciative.  But  now,  if  you  haven't  any 
other  plan,  we'll  go  back  to  bed." 

It  was  half-past  eight  when  we  waked  next  morning.  But  there 
was  nothing  to  wake  up  for.  The  old  house  was  filled  with  the  rain- 
noises  that  only  such  an  old  house  knows.  On  the  little  windows 
the  drops  pricked  sharply ;  hi  the  fireplace  with  the  straight  flue  they 
fell,  hissing,  on  the  embers.  On  the  porch  roofs  the  rain  made  a  dull 
patter  of  sound;  on  the  tin  roof  of  the  "  little  attic  "  over  the  kitchen 
it  beat  with  flat  resonance.  In  the  big  attic,  when  we  went  up  to 
see  if  all  was  tight,  it  filled  the  place  with  a  multitudinous  clamor; 
on  the  sides  of  the  house  it  drove  with  a  fury  that  re-echoed  dimly 
within  doors. 

Outside,  everything  was  afloat.  We  visited  the  trees  and  viewed 
with  consternation  the  torrents  of  rain  water  pouring  into  the  pails. 
We  tried  fastening  pans  over  the  spouts  to  protect  them.  The  wind 
blew  them  merrily  down  the  road.  It  would  have  been  easy  enough  to 
cover  the  pails,  but  how  to  let  the  sap  drip  in  and  the  rain  drip  out— 
that  was  the  question. 

"  It  seems  as  if  there  was  a  curse  on  the  syrup  this  year," 
said  Janet. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  I  said,  "  I  know  just  enough  to  have  lost  my 
hold  on  the  fool's  Providence,  and  not  enough  really  to  take  care 
of  myself." 


SAP-TIME  161 

"  Superstition!  "  said  Janet. 

"  What  do  you  call  your  idea  of  the  curse?  "  I  retorted.  "  Any- 
way, I  have  an  idea!  Look,  Janet!  We'll  just  cut  up  these  enamel- 
cloth  table-covers  here  by  the  sink  and  everywhere,  and  tack  them 
around  the  spouts." 

Janet's  thrifty  spirit  was  doubtful.    "  Don't  you  need  them?  " 

"  Not  half  so  much  as  the  trees  do.  Come  on!  Pull  them  off. 
We'll  have  to  have  fresh  ones  this  summer,  anyway." 

We  stripped  the  kitchen  tables  and  the  pantry  and  the  milk- 
room.  We  got  tacks  and  a  hammer  and  scissors,  and  out  we  went 
again.  We  cut  a  piece  for  each  tree,  just  enough  to  go  over  each  pair 
of  spouts  and  protect  the  pail.  When  tacked  on,  it  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  neat  bib,  and  as  the  pattern  was  a  blue  and  white  check, 
the  effect  as  one  looked  down  the  road  at  the  twelve  trees,  was  very 
fresh  and  pleasing.  It  seemed  to  cheer  the  people  who  drove  by,  too. 

But  the  bibs  served  their  purpose,  and  the  sap  dripped  cozily  into 
the  pails  without  any  distraction  from  alien  elements.  Sap  doesn't 
run  in  the  rain,  they  say,  but  this  sap  did.  Probably  Hiram  was 
right,  and  you  can't  tell.  I  am  glad  if  you  can't.  The  physical 
mysteries  of  the  universe  are  being  unveiled  so  swiftly  that  one  likes 
to  find  something  that  still  keeps  its  secret — though,  indeed,  the 
spiritual  mysteries  seem  in  no  danger  of  such  enforcement. 

The  next  day  the  rain  stopped,  the  floods  began  to  subside,  and 
Jonathan  managed  to  arrive,  though  the  roads  had  even  less  "  bottom 
to  'em  "  than  before.  The  sun  blazed  out,  and  the  sap  ran  faster, 
and,  after  Jonathan  had  fully  enjoyed  them,  the  blue  and  white  bibs 
were  taken  off.  Somehow  in  the  clear  March  sunshine  they  looked 
almost  shocking.  By  the  next  day  we  had  syrup  enough  to  try 
for  sugar. 

For  on  sugar  my  heart  was  set.  Syrup  was  all  very  well  for  the 
first  year,  but  now  it  had  to  be  sugar.  Moreover,  as  I  explained  to 
Janet,  when  it  came  to  sugar,  being  absolutely  ignorant,  I  was  again 
in  a  position  to  expect  the  aid  of  the  fool's  Providence. 

"  How  much  do  you  know  about  it?  "  asked  Janet. 

"  Oh,  just  what  people  say.  It  seems  to  be  partly  like  fudge  and 
partly  like  molasses  candy.  You  boil  it,  and  then  you  beat  it,  and 
then  you  pour  it  off." 

"  I've  got  more  to  go  on  than  that,"  said  Jonathan.  "  I  came 
up  on  the  train  with  the  Judge.  He  used  to  see  it  done." 


162  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  You've  got  to  drive  Janet  over  to  her  train  to-night;  Hiram 
can't,"  I  said. 

"  All  right.    There's  time  enough." 

We  sat  down  to  early  supper,  and  took  turns  running  out  to  the 
kitchen  to  "try  "  the  syrup  as  it  boiled  down.  At  least  we  said  we 
would  take  turns,  but  usually  we  all  three  went.  Supper  seemed 
distinctly  a  side  issue. 

"  I'm  going  to  take  it  off  now,"  said  Jonathan.    "  Look  out!  " 

"  Do  you  think  it's  time?  "  I  demurred. 

"  We'll  know  soon,"  said  Jonathan,  with  his  usual  composure. 

We  hung  over  him.  "  Now  you  beat  it,"  I  said.  But  he  was 
already  beating. 

"  Get  some  cold  water  to  set  it  in,"  he  commanded.  We  brought 
the  dishpan  with  water  from  the  well,  where  ice  still  floated. 

"  Maybe  you  oughtn't  to  stir  so  much — do  you  think?  "  I  sug- 
gested, helpfully.  "  Beat  it  more — up,  you  know." 

"  More  the  way  you  would  eggs,"  said  Janet. 

"  I'll  show  you."    I  lunged  at  the  spoon. 

"  Go  away!     This  ain't  eggs,"  said  Jonathan,  beating  steadily. 

"  Your  arm  must  be  tired.    Let  me  take  it,"  pleaded  Janet. 

"  No,  me!  "  I  said.  "  Janet,  you've  got  to  get  your  coat  and 
things.  You'll  have  to  start  in  fifteen  minutes.  Here,  Jonathan, 
you  need  a  fresh  arm." 

"I'm  fresh  enough." 

"  And  I  really  don't  think  you  have  the  motion." 

"  I  have  motion  enough.  This  is  my  job.  You  go  and  help  Janet." 

"  Janet's  all  right." 

"  So  am  I.    See  how  white  it's  getting.    The  Judge  said 

"  Here  comes  Hiram  and  Kit,"  announced  Janet,  returning  with 
bag  and  wraps.  "  But  you  have  ten  minutes.  Can't  I  help?  " 

"  He  won't  let  us.  He's  that '  sot/  "  I  murmured.  "  He'll  make 
you  miss  your  train." 

"  You  could  butter  the  pans,"  Jonathan  counter-charged,  "  and 
you  haven't." 

We  flew  to  prepare,  and  the  pouring  began.  It  was  a  thrilling 
moment.  The  syrup,  or  sugar,  now  a  pale  hay  color,  poured  out 
thickly,  blob-blob-blob,  into  the  little  pans.  Janet  moved  them  up 
as  they  were  needed,  and  I  snatched  the  spoon,  at  last,  and  encour- 
aged the  stuff  to  fall  where  it  should.  But  Jonathan  got  it  from  me 


SAP-TIME  163 

again,  and  scraped  out  the  remnant,  making  designs  of  clovers  and 
polliwogs  on  the  tops  of  the  cakes.  Then  a  dash  for  coats  and  hats 
and  a  rush  to  the  carriage. 

When  the  surrey  disappeared  around  the  turn  of  the  road,  I 
went  back,  shivering,  to  the  house.  It  seemed  very  empty,  as  houses 
will,  being  sensitive  things.  I  went  to  the  kitchen.  There  on  the 
table  sat  a  huddle  of  little  pans,  to  cheer  me,  and  I  fell  to  work 
getting  things  in  order  to  be  left  in  the  morning.  Then  I  went  back 
to  the  fire  and  waited  for  Jonathan.  I  picked  up  a  book  and  tried 
to  read,  but  the  stillness  of  the  house  was  too  importunate.  It  had  to 
be  listened  to;  and  I  leaned  back  and  watched  the  fire,  and  the  old 
house  and  I  held  communion  together. 

Perhaps  in  no  other  way  is  it  possible  to  get  quite  what  I  got 
that  evening.  It  was  partly  my  own  attitude.  I  was  going  away 
in  the  morning,  and  I  had,  in  a  sense,  no  duties  toward  the  place. 
The  magazines  of  last  fall  lay  on  the  tables,  the  newspapers  of  last 
fall  lay  beside  them.  The  dust  of  last  fall  was,  doubtless,  in  the 
closets  and  on  the  floors.  It  did  not  matter.  For  though  I  was  the 
mistress  of  the  house,  I  was  for  the  moment  even  more  its  guest,  and 
guests  do  not  concern  themselves  with  such  things  as  these. 

If  it  had  been  really  an  empty  house,  I  should  have  been  obliged 
to  think  of  these  things,  for  in  an  empty  house  the  dust  speaks  and  the 
house  is  still,  dumbly  imprisoned  in  its  own  past.  On  the  other 
hand,  when  a  house  is  filled  with  life,  it  is  still,  too ;  it  is  absorbed  in 
its  own  present.  But  when  one  sojourns  in  a  house  that  is  merely 
resting,  full  of  life  that  has  only  for  a  brief  season  left  it,  ready 
for  the  life  that  is  soon  to  return — then  one  is  in  the  midst  of  silences 
that  are  not  empty  and  hollow,  but  richly  eloquent.  The  house  is 
the  link  that  joins  and  interprets  the  living  past  and  the  living  future. 

Something  of  this  I  came  to  feel  as  I  sat  there  in  the  wonderful 
stillness.  There  were  no  house  noises  such  as  generally  form  the 
unnoticed  background  of  one's  consciousness — the  steps  overhead, 
the  distant  voices,  the  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  breathing  of  the  dog 
in  the  corner.  Even  the  mice  and  the  chimney-swallows  had  not 
come  back,  and  I  missed  the  scurrying  in  the  walls  and  the  flutter 
of  wings  in  the  chimney.  The  fire  purred  low,  now  and  then  the  wind 
sighed  gently  about  the  corner  of  the  "  new  part,"  and  a  loose  door- 
latch  clicked  as  the  draught  shook  it.  A  branch  drew  back  and  forth 
across  a  window-pane  with  the  faintest  squeak.  And  little  by  little 


164  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  old  old  house  opened  its  heart.  All  that  it  told  me  I  hardly 
yet  know  myself.  It  gathered  up  for  me  all  its  past,  the  past  that  I 
had  known  and  the  past  that  I  had  not  known.  Time  fell  away.  My 
own  importance  dwindled.  I  seemed  a  very  small  part  of  the  life  of 
the  house — very  small,  yet  wholly  belonging  to  it.  I  felt  that  it 
absorbed  me  as  it  had  absorbed  the  rest — those  before  and  after  me 
— for  time  was  not. 

There  was  the  sound  of  slow  wheels  outside,  the  long  roll  of  the 
carriage-house  door,  and  the  trampling  of  hoofs  on  the  flooring  within. 
Then  the  clinking  of  the  lantern  and  the  even  tread  of  feet  on  the 
path  behind  the  house,  a  gust  of  raw  snow-air — and  the  house  fell 
silent  so  that  Jonathan  might  come  in. 

"  Your  sugar  is  hardening  nice,  I  see,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands 
before  the  fire. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  You  know  I  told  Janet  that  for  this  part  of 
the  affair  we  could  trust  to  the  fool's  Providence." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Jonathan. 


MINEUR    AU   TRAVAIL.       BY   CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 


THE  RED  COW  AND  HER  FRIENDS 
BY  PETER  MCARTHUR 

I.    THE    GOBBLER 

THERE  are  times  when  I  wish  that  I  had  a  proper  scientific  educa- 
tion. For  instance,  I  would  like  to  know  just  now  whether  turkey 
gobblers  ever  suffer  from  speaker's  sore  throat.  None  of  the  bulletins 
I  have  on  hand  throws  any  light  on  the  matter.  It  would  cheer  me 
considerably  to  learn  that  gobblers  occasionally  suffer  from  aphonia 
or  speechlessness.  It  sometimes  seems  to  me  that  our  bubblyjock  is 
getting  hoarse,  though  he  is  still  able  to  gobble  with  vigor  and  author- 
ity. But  unless  he  loses  his  voice  before  long  I  shall  have  to  wring 
his  neck — no  easy  job — or  do  without  my  usual  amount  of  sleep.  The 
trouble  is  all  due  to  the  fact  that  when  the  turkey  hen  tried  to  hide  her 
nest  she  selected  a  bunch  of  long  grass  at  the  foot  of  a  tree  not  far 
from  the  house.  As  she  had  been  put  off  the  cluck  a  couple  of  times 
to  make  her  lay  the  proper  amount  of  eggs,  it  was  decided  to  let  her 
keep  this  nest.  When  she  finally  got  broody  she  was  given  seventeen 
eggs  and  allowed  to  settle  down  to  the  task  of  incubating  Christmas 
dinners.  As  far  as  she  was  concerned  this  was  all  right,  for  she  is  a 
modest,  quiet  bird,  whose  presence  would  never  be  noticed.  But  this 
is  not  the  case  with  her  lordly  spouse.  Every  morning  at  about  a 
quarter  to  four  he  comes  down  from  his  perch  on  the  ridge-pole  of 
the  stable  and  struts  down  to  see  if  his  lady  has  passed  a  comfortable 
night.  As  the  grass  is  long  and  wet  with  dew  he  comes  to  the  lawn 
and  sends  her  his  morning  greetings,  and  I  can  tell  you  that  a 
forty-pound  gobbler  can  let  out  a  very  considerable  amount  of 
noise.  He  gets  right  under  my  window  and  explodes  into  assorted 
sounds.  Once  a  minute,  or  oftener,  he  lets  out  a  gobble,  until  I  get  up 
and  throw  a  shoe  or  a  hairbrush  at  him.  Then  I  go  back  to  bed  and 
try  to  sleep  until  it  is  time  to  get  up.  If  there  is  any  way  of  treating 
his  vocal  cords  so  as  to  stop  this  morning  charicari  I  wish  some 
scientist  would  write  and  tell  me  about  it. 

From  The  Red  Cow  and  Her  Friends,  by  Peter  McArthur.  Copyright, 
by  John  Lane  Company,  Publishers. 

165 


166  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

II.   HIS   TROUBLES 

Last  night  when  we  were  milking  there  was  a  sudden  racket  on 
the  roof  of  the  cow-stable  that  scared  the  cows  so  that  they  stopped 
giving  down.  You  would  think  that  a  man  with  a  wooden  leg  was 
having  a  fit  on  the  shingles  right  over  our  heads.  The  pounding, 
flopping,  and  scratching  on  the  hollow  roof  made  the  stable  resound 
like  the  big  drum  in  an  Orange  parade.  I  couldn't  imagine  what  on 
earth  was  happening,  but  it  only  took  a  step  to  get  outdoors  and 
then  the  cause  of  the  trouble  was  plain.  The  old  turkey  gobbler 
had  decided  to  roost  on  the  ridgeboard  of  the  stable  and  he  was 
having  the  time  of  his  life  getting  up  the  roof.  He  was  using  his 
wings  and  his  tail  to  balance  himself  as  he  clawed  for  a  toe-hold, 
and  he  showed  none  of  the  stately  gracefulness  that  marks  his  move- 
ments when  he  is  strutting  around  the  barnyard  and  proclaiming  his 
overlordship.  When  he  reached  the  ridge  and  caught  his  balance 
with  a  final  flip-flap  of  his  broad  tail  he  stretched  his  neck  and 
looked  around  to  see  if  any  of  the  young  gobblers  were  grinning  at 
him.  They  were  already  quietly  at  roost  with  the  mother  hen  at  the 
far  end  of  the  roof,  and  the  noisy  approach  of  their  lord  and  king 
made  them  huddle  together  in  squeaking  terror.  Seeing  that  their 
attitude  was  respectful  he  settled  down  on  his  wishbone  for  the  night. 
Being  young  and  light  they  had  flown  gracefully  to  their  chosen  roost 
and  doubtless  could  not  understand  what  was  ailing  him  when  he 
sprawled  around  like  that.  I  could  sympathize  with  him  better  than 
they  could,  for  when  a  man  gets  heavy  and  gets  chalky  deposits  in 
his  joints  the  climbing  stunts  he  did  as  a  boy  become  impossible. 
Time  was  when  I  could  have  walked  up  that  roof  as  jauntily  as  if 
I  were  on  parade  on  an  asphalt  sidewalk,  but  I  suspect  that  if  I 
tried  it  now  I  would  make  more  noise  than  the  old  gobbler. 

III.   HUMAN  NATURE  IN  DUMB  CREATURES 

It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  any  quality,  habit,  trick,  failing, 
weakness,  virtue  or  other  characteristic  is  peculiar  to  mankind.  The 
dumb  creatures  about  the  place  have  every  one  of  them.  If  I  were 
to  watch  them  carefully  I  feel  sure  that  I  could  find  instances  of 
everything  from  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  to  the  Seven  Cardinal  Vir- 
tues, and  that  without  leaving  the  barnyard.  It  is  all  very  well  for 
us  to  talk  about  getting  rid  of  our  animal  natures  as  if  that  would 


THE  RED  COW  AND  HER  FRIENDS  167 

mark  an  upward  step  in  our  development,  but  what  interests  me  is 
how  to  rid  the  dumb  creatures  of  what  can  only  be  described  as  their 
human  natures.  It  is  always  the  human  things  they  do  that  arouse 
my  wrath  or  make  me  laugh.  For  instance,  our  old  gobbler  gives 
every  evening  one  of  the  most  human  exhibitions  of  over-bearing 
meanness  that  I  have  ever  witnessed.  I  thought  it  was  only  society 
people,  and  a  particularly  annoying  brand  of  them  at  that,  who  had 
the  habit  of  waiting  until  other  people  were  comfortably  seated  at 
a  concert  or  theatre  and  then  walking  in,  disturbing  every  one  and 
perhaps  making  quite  a  few  get  up  to  make  way  for  them  as  they 
progressed  toward  their  seats.  I  thought  this  trick  was  confined  to 
people  who  wished  to  show  their  importance  and  new  clothes,  and 
didn't  mind  how  much  they  bothered  other  people.  But  since  watch- 
ing our  gobbler  going  to  roost  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
this  kind  of  conduct  on  the  part  of  society  people  at  public  enter- 
tainments is  not  due  to  vanity  or  a  desire  to  show  off  but  to  funda- 
mental cussedness  and  a  wicked  delight  in  causing  as  much  dis- 
comfort as  possible  to  other  people. 

The  old  gobbler  has  become  expert  at  ascending  the  roof  of  the 
stable  and  not  only  does  the  trick  with  ease  but  puts  frills  on  it. 
When  roosting  time  comes  round  each  evening,  the  mother  hen  and 
her  flock  of  young  gobblers  and  hens  go  to  roost  quietly  and  cir- 
cumspectly like  ordinary  folks.  The  old  gobbler,  on  the  contrary, 
waits  around  and  picks  up  grains  of  oats  about  the  stacks  and  hunts 
for  crickets  and  keeps  up  an  air  of  being  busy  until  it  is  almost  dark 
and  the  rest  of  his  tribe  are  settled  for  the  night — or  think  they  are. 
When  he  finally  makes  up  his  mind  that  it  is  bedtime  he  stretches  his 
neck  a  few  times,  first  in  one  direction  and  then  in  another,  and 
takes  a  look  at  the  top  of  the  stable  with  one  eye  and  then  with  the 
other  and  at  last  makes  a  flying  leap  or  a  leaping  fly  that  lands  him 
on  the  ridge-board.  That  would  be  all  right  if  he  were  satisfied 
after  he  got  there,  but  he  is  not.  He  insists  on  roosting  on  the  extreme 
north  end  of  the  ridge-board  and  he  always  flies  up  on  the  south 
end.  There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  not  fly  up  at  the  north 
end,  but  he  never  does  it,  and  I  am  inclined  to  think  from  watching  his 
actions  that  he  flies  up  on  the  south  end  on  purpose.  Anyway,  as 
soon  as  he  gets  up  and  gets  his  balance  he  starts  to  walk  towards 
the  north  along  the  ridge-board.  As  soon  as  he  comes  to  the  first 
of  his  offspring  he  gives  a  sharp  peck  with  his  bill  and  the  youngster 


168  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

gets  up  squeaking  and  moves  along  ahead  of  him.  Presently  he  has 
them  all  huddled  on  the  ridge-board  along  the  north  end  and  the  fun 
begins.  The  polite  thing  for  him  to  do  would  be  to  step  down  on 
the  shingles  and  walk  around  them,  but  does  he  do  it?  I  should 
say  not.  He  gives  the  nearest  youngster  a  vicious  peck  that  makes 
him  jump  in  the  air  and  land  sprawling  a  few  feet  down  on  the 
shingles.  In  rapid  succession  he  deals  with  the  fourteen  youngsters 
and  their  mother  in  the  same  way  and  for  a  few  minutes  the  roof  is 
covered  with  squeaking,  sprawling,  protesting  turkeys.  As  he  pecks 
them  out  of  his  way  he  walks  along  the  ridge-board  to  his  chosen 
roosting-place  and  when  he  finally  reaches  it  he  stretches  his  neck 
arrogantly  while  the  others  scramble  back  to  the  top  and  settle 
down  for  the  night.  When  they  have  settled  down  the  old  bully 
settles  down  also  with  as  much  dignity  as  a  dowager  who  had  dis- 
turbed a  whole  seatful  of  music  lovers  at  a  concert  or  opera.  You 
needn't  tell  me  that  there  isn't  something  human  about  a  gobbler 
that  does  such  things  as  that. 

TV.   COW  CHARACTER 

It  is  when  a  fellow  settles  down  to  do  the  chores  twice  a  day 
and  every  day  that  he  gets  thoroughly  acquainted  with  his  livestock. 
When  the  cattle  are  in  the  pasture  field  they  look  pleasant  and  pose 
for  their  pictures  when  people  come  along  with  cameras,  but  when 
they  are  put  in  stalls  and  waited  on  hand  and — I  mean  foot  and 
mouth,  they  develop  all  sorts  of  little  meannesses — just  like  human 
beings.  One  little  cow  starts  to  shake  her  head  until  her  horns  are 
simply  a  dangerous  blur  every  time  I  go  to  loosen  her  chain  to  let 
her  out  to  water.  I  have  had  several  narrow  escapes  from  being 
prodded,  but  it  is  useless  to  yell  at  her,  or  even  to  use  the  whip 
on  her.  She  will  start  shaking  her  head  as  soon  as  I  lay  my  hand 
on  the  chain,  and  she  keeps  it  up  until  the  chain  drops  from  her 
neck.  Another  brute  has  the  habit  of  swinging  quickly  towards  me  as 
soon  as  she  feels  the  chain  loosen,  and  I  have  to  side-step  like  a 
prize-fighter  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  her  horns.  But  I  am  glad  to 
record  that  the  Red  Cow,  variously  known  as  Calamity  and  Fence- 
viewer  I,  can  be  untied  safely,  even  by  a  child.  When  the  chain  is 
opened  she  backs  quietly  from  the  stall  and  walks  to  the  stable  door 
in  a  dignified  manner — unless  there  happens  to  be  a  pail  standing 
around  where  she  can  poke  an  investigating  nose  into  it.  She  is 


THE  RED  COW  AND  HER  FRIENDS  169 

always  on  the  lookout  for  something  to  eat,  and  she  always  enjoys 
it  better  if  it  is  something  she  should  not  have. 

V.  CALF  EXUBERANCE 

Last  night  Juno  got  loose,  and  for  a  few  minutes  there  was  ex- 
citement around  the  stable.  Juno  is  a  fall  calf,  daughter  of  Fence- 
viewer  II,  and  owing  to  the  scarcity  of  stable  room  she  is  being  pam- 
pered and  fed  up  for  veal.  At  the  time  of  her  arrival  the  children 
named  her  Jupiter,  but  on  second  thought  it  was  considered  that 
Juno  would  be  more  appropriate.  Up  to  last  night  she  had  lived  in  a 
small  calf  pen  at  the  end  of  the  stable,  but  the  fastening  on  the  gate 
came  loose  and  she  discovered  what  her  legs  were  for.  She  shot 
out  through  the  stable  door  in  a  way  that  sent  the  hens  flying  over 
the  haystacks.  Then  she  tripped  over  a  sheaf  of  cornstalks  that  I 
had  dropped  on  the  ground  while  preparing  to  feed  the  cows,  sprawled 
at  full  length,  bounced  right  up  and  rushed  ahead  until  she  was 
brought  to  a  standstill  by  a  wire  fence  in  a  way  that  almost  tele- 
scoped her  neck  into  her  body.  Finding  that  the  wire  fence  would  not 
yield,  she  said  "  Bah-wah  "  and  started  in  another  direction.  Sheppy 
was  coming  around  the  corner  of  the  granary  in  his  most  sedate 
manner,  when  the  pop-eyed  avalanche  almost  stepped  on  him.  When 
last  seen  Sheppy  was  plunging  blindly  between  two  haystacks  with 
his  tail  between  his  legs.  A  flock  of  hens  that  were  enjoying  their 
evening  bran  mash  next  attracted  her  attention,  and  she  made  an 
offensive  straight  at  them.  When  they  were  thoroughly  scattered  she 
rushed  the  ducks  from  a  mud  puddle,  and  the  squawking  they  made 
startled  her  so  that  she  applied  the  brakes  and  threw  on  the  reverse. 
It  was  a  wonderful  exhibition  of  vitality,  and  showed  what  a  milk 
diet  can  do  for  one.  The  next  I  heard  of  Juno  was  when  I  was 
stooping  over  to  pick  up  a  sheaf  of  cornstalks,  and  if  you  can  picture 
to  yourself  a  dignified  man  in  that  attitude  with  a  lusty  calf  prancing 
behind  him  and  going  through  the  motions  of  getting  ready  to  bunt 
you  can  understand  the  joyous  laughter  with  which  the  children 
shouted  a  warning.  I  sidestepped  in  the  nick  of  time  and  shooed 
Juno  away  to  the  orchard,  where  she  could  enjoy  herself  without 
getting  into  trouble.  After  the  chores  were  done  I  took  a  pail  that 
was  as  empty  as  a  political  platform  and  she  followed  me  right  back 
into  the  pen  just  like  an  intelligent  voter.  I  could  do  a  little  moral- 
izing right  here,  but  it  is  not  considered  good  form  to  talk  politics 
just  now. 


THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE 
BY  HAMLIN  GARLAND 

LIFE  on  a  Wisconsin  farm,  even  for  the  women,  had  its  compen- 
sations. There  were  times  when  the  daily  routine  of  lonely  and 
monotonous  housework  gave  place  to  an  agreeable  bustle,  and  human 
intercourse  lightened  the  toil.  In  the  midst  of  the  slow  progress 
of  the  fall's  plowing,  the  gathering  of  the  threshing  crew  was  a  most 
dramatic  event  to  my  mother,  as  to  us,  for  it  not  only  brought  un- 
wonted clamor,  it  fetched  her  brothers,  William  and  David  and 
Frank,  who  owned  and  ran  a  threshing  machine,  and  their  coming 
gave  the  house  an  air  of  festivity  which  offset  the  burden  of  extra 
work  which  fell  upon  us  all. 

I  recall  with  especial  clearness  the  events  of  that  last  threshing 
in  the  coulee — I  was  eight,  my  brother  was  six.  For  days  we  had 
looked  forward  to  the  coming  of  "  the  threshers,"  listening  with  the 
greatest  eagerness  to  father's  report  of  the  crew.  At  last  he  said, 
"  Well,  Belle,  get  ready.  The  machine  will  be  here  to-morrow." 

All  day  we  hung  on  the  gate,  gazing  down  the  road,  watching, 
waiting  for  the  crew,  and  even  after  supper,  we  stood  at  the  windows 
still  hoping  to  hear  the  rattle  of  the  ponderous  separator. 

Father  explained  that  the  men  usually  worked  all  day  at  one 
farm  and  moved  after  dark,  and  we  were  just  starting  to  "  climb  the 
wooden  hill  "  when  we  heard  a  far-off  faint  halloo. 

"  There  they  are,"  shouted  father,  catching  up  his  old  square 
tin  lantern  and  hurriedly  lighting  the  candle  within  it.  "  That's 
Frank's  voice." 

The  night  air  was  sharp,  and  as  we  had  taken  off  our  boots  we 
could  only  stand  at  the  window  and  watch  father  as  he  piloted  the 
teamsters  through  the  gate.  The  light  threw  fantastic  shadows  here 
and  there,  now  lighting  up  a  face,  now  bringing  out  the  separator 
which  seemed  a  weary  and  sullen  monster  awaiting  its  den.  The 
men's  voices  sounded  loud  in  the  still  night,  causing  the  roused 
turkeys  in  the  oaks  to  peer  about  on  their  perches,  uneasy  silhouettes 
against  the  sky. 
170 


THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE          171 

We  would  gladly  have  stayed  awake  to  greet  our  beloved  uncles, 
but  mother  said,  "  You  must  go  to  sleep  in  order  to  be  up  early  in 
the  morning,"  and  reluctantly  we  turned  away. 

Lying  thus  in  our  cot  under  the  sloping  raftered  roof  we  could 
hear  the  squawk  of  the  hens  as  father  wrung  their  innocent  necks,  and 
the  crash  of  the  "  sweeps  "  being  unloaded  sounded  loud  and  clear 
and  strange.  We  longed  to  be  out  there,  but  at  last  the  dance  of 
lights  and  shadows  on  the  plastered  wall  died  away,  and  we  fell  into 
childish  dreamless  sleep. 

We  were  awakened  at  dawn  by  the  ring  beat  of  the  iron  mauls  as 
Frank  and  David  drove  the  stakes  to  hold  the  "  power  "  to  the 
ground.  The  rattle  of  trace  chains,  the  clash  of  iron  rods,  the  clang 
of  steel  bars,  intermixed  with  the  laughter  of  the  men,  came  sharply 
through  the  frosty  air,  and  the  smell  of  sizzling  sausage  from  the 
kitchen  warned  us  that  our  busy  mother  was  hurrying  the  breakfast 
forward.  Knowing  that  it  was  time  to  get  up,  although  it  was  not 
yet  light,  I  had  a  sense  of  being  awakened  into  a  romantic  new 
world,  a  world  of  heroic  action. 

As  we  stumbled  down  the  stairs,  we  found  the  lamp-lit  kitchen 
empty  of  the  men.  They  had  finished  their  coffee  and  were  out  in 
the  stackyard  oiling  the  machine  and  hitching  the  horses  to  the 
power.  Shivering,  yet  entranced  by  the  beauty  of  the  frosty  dawn, 
we  crept  out  to  stand  and  watch  the  play.  The  frost  lay  white 
on  every  surface,  the  frozen  ground  rang  like  iron  under  the  steel- 
shod  feet  of  the  horses,  and  the  breath  of  the  men  rose  up  in  little 
white  puffs  of  steam. 

Uncle  David  on  the  feeder's  stand  was  impatiently  awaiting  the 
coming  of  the  fifth  team.  The  pitchers  were  climbing  the  stacks  like 
blackbirds,  and  the  straw-stickers  were  scuffling  about  the  stable  door. 
Finally,  just  as  the  east  began  to  bloom,  and  long  streamers  of  red 
began  to  unroll  along  the  vast  gray  dome  of  sky,  Uncle  Frank,  the 
driver,  lifted  his  voice  in  a  "  Chippewa  war-whoop." 

On  a  still  morning. like  this  his  signal  could  be  heard  for  miles. 
Long  drawn  and  musical,  it  sped  away  over  the  fields,  announcing 
to  all  the  world  that  the  McClintocks  were  ready  for  the  day's  race. 
Answers  came  back  faintly  from  the  frosty  fields  where  dim  figures 
of  laggard  hands  could  be  seen  hurrying  over  the  plowed  ground,  the 
last  team  came  clattering  in,  and  was  hooked  into  its  place,  David 
called  "  All  right!  "  and  the  cylinder  began  to  hum. 


172  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

In  those  days  the  machine  was  either  a  "  J.  I.  Case "  or  a 
"  Buffalo  Pitts,"  and  was  moved  by  five  pairs  of  horses  attached  to 
a  "  power  "  staked  to  the  ground,  round  which  they  traveled  pulling 
at  the  ends  of  long  levers  or  sweeps,  and  to  me  the  force  seemed  tre- 
mendous. "  Tumbling  rods  "  with  "  knuckle  joints  "  carried  the 
motion  to  the  cylinder,  and  the  driver  who  stood  upon  a  square 
platform  above  the  huge,  greasy  cog-wheels  (round  which  the  horses 
moved)  was  a  grand  figure  in  my  eyes. 

Driving,  to  us,  looked  like  a  pleasant  job,  but  Uncle  Frank 
thought  it  very  tiresome,  and  I  can  now  see  that  it  was.  To  stand 
on  that  small  platform  all  through  the  long  hours  of  a  cold  November 
day,  when  the  cutting  wind  roared  down  the  valley  sweeping  the  dust 
and  leaves  along  the  road,  was  work.  Even  I  perceived  that  it  was 
far  pleasanter  to  sit  on  the  south  side  of  the  stack  and  watch  the 
horses  go  round. 

It  was  necessary  that  the  "  driver  "  should  be  a  man  of  judgment, 
for  the  horses  had  to  be  kept  at  just  the  right  speed,  and  to  do  this 
he  must  gauge  the  motion  of  the  cylinder  by  the  pitch  of  its  deep 
bass  song. 

The  three  men  in  command  of  the  machine  were  set  apart  as 
"  the  threshers."  William  and  David  alternately  "  fed "  or 
"  tended,"  that  is,  one  of  them  "  fed  "  the  grain  into  the  howling 
cylinder  while  the  other,  oil-can  in  hand,  watched  the  sieves,  felt  of 
the  pinions  and  so  kept  the  machine  in  good  order.  The  feeder's 
position  was  the  high  place  to  which  all  boys  aspired,  and  on  this  day 
I  stood  in  silent  admiration  of  Uncle  David's  easy  powerful  attitudes 
as  he  caught  each  bundle  in  the  crook  of  his  arm  and  spread  it  out 
into  a  broad,  smooth  band  of  yellow  straw  on  which  the  whirling  teeth 
caught  and  tore  with  monstrous  fury.  He  was  the  ideal  man  in  my 
eyes,  grander  in  some  ways  than  my  father,  and  to  be  able  to  stand 
where  he  stood  was  the  highest  honor  in  the  world. 

It  was  all  poetry  for  us  and  we  wished  every  day  were  threshing 
day.  The  wind  blew  cold,  the  clouds  went  flying  across  the  bright 
blue  sky,  and  the  straw  glistened  in  the  sun.  With  jarring  snarl 
the  circling  zone  of  cogs  dipped  into  the  sturdy  greasy  wheels,  and 
the  singletrees  and  pulley-chains  chirped  clear  and  sweet  as  crickets. 
The  dust  flew,  the  whip  cracked,  and  the  men  working  swiftly  to  get 
the  sheaves  to  the  feeder  or  to  take  the  straw  away  from  the  tail-end 


THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE          173 

of  the  machine,  were  like  warriors,  urged  to  desperate  action  by 
battle-cries.  The  stackers  wallowing  to  their  waists  in  the  fluffy 
straw-pile  seemed  gnomes  acting  for  our  amusement. 

At  last  the  call  for  dinner  sounded.  The  driver  began  to  call, 
"  Whoa  there,  boys!  Steady,  Tom,"  and  to  hold  his  long  whip 
before  the  eyes  of  the  more  spirited  of  the  teams  in  order  to  con- 
vince them  that  he  really  meant  "  stop."  The  pitchers  stuck  their 
forks  upright  in  the  stack  and  leaped  to  the  ground.  Randal,  the 
band-cutter,  drew  from  his  wrist  the  looped  string  of  his  big  knife, 
the  stackers  slid  down  from  the  straw-pile,  and  a  race  began  among 
the  teamsters  to  see  whose  span  would  be  first  unhitched  and  at  the 
watering  trough.  What  joyous  rivalry  it  seemed  to  us! 

Mother  and  Mrs.  Randal,  wife  of  our  neighbor,  stood  ready  to 
serve  the  food  as  soon  as  the  men  were  seated.  The  table  had  been 
lengthened  to  its  utmost  and  pieced  out  with  boards,  and  planks 
had  been  laid  on  stout  wooden  chairs  at  either  side. 

The  men  came  in  with  a  rush,  and  took  seats  wherever  they  could 
find  them,  and  their  attack  on  the  boiled  potatoes  and  chicken  should 
have  been  appalling  to  the  women,  but  it  was  not.  They  enjoyed 
seeing  them  eat.  Ed  Green  was  prodigious.  One  cut  at  a  big  potato, 
followed  by  two  stabbing  motions,  and  it  was  gone.  Two  bites  laid 
a  leg  of  chicken  as  bare  as  a  slate  pencil.  To  us  standing  in  the 
corner  waiting  our  turn,  it  seemed  that  every  "  smitch  "  of  the  din- 
ner was  in  danger,  for  the  others  were  not  far  behind  Ed  and  Dan. 

At  last  even  the  gauntest  of  them  filled  up  and  left  the  room  and 
we  were  free  to  sit  at  "  the  second  table  "  and  eat,  while  the  men 
rested  outside.  David  and  William,  however,  generally  had  a  belt 
to  sew  or  a  bent  tooth  to  take  out  of  the  "  concave."  This  seemed  of 
grave  dignity  to  us  and  we  respected  their  self-sacrificing  labor. 

Nooning  was  brief.  As  soon  as  the  horses  had  finished  their  oats, 
the  roar  and  hum  of  the  machine  began  again  and  continued  steadily 
all  afternoon,  till  by  and  by  the  sun  grew  big  and  red,  the  night 
began  to  fall,  and  the  wind  died  out. 

This  was  the  most  impressive  hour  of  a  marvelous  day.  Through 
the  falling  dusk,  the  machine  boomed  steadily  with  a  new  sound,  a 
solemn  roar,  rising  at  intervals  to  a  rattling  impatient  yell  as  the 
cylinder  ran  momentarily  empty.  The  men  moved  now  in  silence, 
looming  dim  and  gigantic  in  the  half-light.  The  straw-pile  mountain 


174  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

high,  the  pitchers  in  the  chaff,  the  feeder  on  his  platform,  and  espe- 
cially the  driver  on  his  power,  seemed  almost  superhuman  to  my 
childish  eyes.  Gray  dust  covered  the  handsome  face  of  David, 
changing  it  into  something  both  sad  and  stern,  but  Frank's  cheery 
voice  rang  out  musically  as  he  called  to  the  weary  horses,  "  Come  on, 
Tom!  Hup  there,  Dan!  " 

The  track  in  which  they  walked  had  been  worn  into  two  deep 
circles  and  they  all  moved  mechanically  round  and  round,  like  parts 
of  a  machine,  dull-eyed  and  covered  with  sweat. 

At  last  William  raised  the  welcome  cry,  "  All  done!  " — the  men 
threw  down  their  forks.  Uncle  Frank  began  to  call  in  a  gentle, 
soothing  voice,  "  Whoa,  lads!  Steady,  boys!  Whoa,  there!  " 

But  the  horses  had  been  going  so  long  and  so  steadily  that  they 
could  not  at  once  check  their  speed.  They  kept  moving,  though 
slowly,  on  and  on  till  their  owners  slid  from  the  stacks  and  seizing 
the  ends  of  the  sweeps,  held  them.  Even  then,  after  the  power  was 
still,  the  cylinder  kept  its  hum,  till  David,  throwing  a  last  sheaf  into 
its  open  maw,  choked  it  into  silence. 

Now  came  the  sound  of  dropping  chains,  the  clang  of  iron  rods, 
and  the  thud  of  hoofs  as  the  horses  walked  with  laggard  gait  and 
weary,  down-falling  heads  to  the  barn.  The  men,  more  subdued 
than  at  dinner,  washed  with  great  care,  and  combed  the  chaff  from 
their  beards.  The  air  was  still  and  cool  and  the  sky  a  deep  cloudless 
blue  starred  with  faint  fire. 

Supper,  though  quiet,  was  more  dramatic  than  dinner  had  been. 
The  table  lighted  with  kerosene  lamps,  the  clean  white  linen,  the 
fragrant  dishes,  the  women  flying  about  with  steaming  platters,  all 
seemed  very  cheery  and  very  beautiful,  and  the  men  who  came  into 
the  light  and  warmth  of  the  kitchen  with  aching  muscles  and  empty 
stomachs,  seemed  gentler  and  finer  than  at  noon.  They  were  nearly 
all  from  neighboring  farms,  and  my  mother  treated  even  the  few 
hired  men  like  visitors,  and  the  talk  was  all  hearty  and  good-tem- 
pered though  a  little  subdued. 

One  by  one  the  men  rose  and  slipped  away,  and  father  withdrew 
to  milk  the  cows  and  bed  down  the  horses,  leaving  the  women  and 
the  youngsters  to  eat  what  was  left  and  "  do  up  the  dishes." 

After  we  had  eaten  our  fill,  Frank  and  I  also  went  out  to  the 
barn  (all  wonderfully  changed  now  to  our  minds  by  the  great  stack 
of  straw),  there  to  listen  to  David  and  father  chatting  as  they 


THE  LAST  THRESHING  IN  THE  COULEE          175 

rubbed  their  tired  horses.  The  lantern  threw  a  dim  red  light  on  the 
harness  and  on  the  rumps  of  the  cattle,  but  left  mysterious  shadows 
in  the  corners.  I  could  hear  the  mice  rustling  in  the  straw  of  the 
roof,  and  from  the  farther  end  of  the  dimly-lighted  shed  came  the 
regular  strim-stram  of  the  streams  of  milk  falling  into  the  bottom 
of  a  tin  pail  as  the  hired  hand  milked  the  big  roan  cow. 

Oh,  those  blessed  days,  those  entrancing  nights!  How  fine  they 
were  then,  and  how  mellow  they  are  now,  for  the  slow-paced  years 
have  dropped  nearly  fifty  other  golden  mists  upon  that  far-off  valley. 


THE  POWER  PLANT 
BY  BERTON  BRALEY 

Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr! 

The  mighty  dynamos  hum  and  purr, 

And  the  blue  flames  crackle  and  glow  and  burn 

Where  the  brushes  touch  and  magnets  turn! 

Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr! 

This  is  no  shrine  of  the  Things  That  Were, 

But  the  tingling  altar  of  live  To-day, 

Where  the  modern  priests  of  the  "  Juice  "  hold  sway; 

Where  the  lights  are  born  and  the  lightnings  made 

To  serve  the  needs  of  the  world  of  trade. 

Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr! 

The  white  lights  banish  the  murky  blur, 

And  over  the  city,  far  and  near, 

The  spell  extends  that  was  conjured  here, 

While  down  in  the  wheel-pits,  far  below, 

The  water  whirls  in  a  ceaseless  flow — 

Foaming  and  boiling,  wild  and  white, 

In  a  passionate  race  of  tireless  might, 

Rushing  ever  the  turbines  through, 

And  making  the  dream,  the  Dream  come  true! 

Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr!  Whirr! 

The  dynamos  croon  and  hum  and  purr, 

And  over  the  city's  myriad  ways, 

The  jeweled  lights  all  burst  ablaze, 

And  the  peak-load  comes  on  the  burdened  wires 

As  the  fold  rush  home  to  their  food  and  fires! 

From  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World,  by  Berton  Braley.     Copyright, 
.  George  H.  Doran,  Publisher. 
176 


PITTSBURGH 

Way  down  below  the  level  road  on  which  I  stood,  way  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river.  Pittsburgh  lies,  a  dark,  low  mass,  hemmed  in  by  its  rivers,  lorded  by  its  hills;  in 
the  hollow  the  smoke  hangs  so  dense  often  I  could  not  see  the  city  at  all,  but  once  in 
a  while  a  breeze  falls  on  the  town,  and  the  great  white  skyscrapers  come  forth  from  the 
thick,  black  cloud,  and  the  effect  is  glorious — the  glorification  of  work,  for  Pittsburgh  is 
the  work -city  of  the  world. 


I 


*THE  POWER  PLANT  177 

Whirrl  Whirr!  Whirr!  WhirrI 

This  is  the  heart  of  the  city's  stir, 

Here  where  the  dynamos  croon  and  sing, 

Here  where  only  the  "  Juice  "  is  King, 

Where  the  switchboard  stands  in  its  marble  pride, 

And  the  tender  watches  it,  argus-eyed; 

Where  Death  is  harnessed  and  made  to  serve 

By  keen-faced  masters  of  brain  and  nerve ; 

This  is  the  shrine  of  the  God  That  Works, 

Driving  away  the  mists  and  murks, 

Turning  the  lightnings  into  use; 

This  is  the  shrine  of  the  mighty  "  Juice," 

Flowing  ever  the  long  wires  through, 

And  making  the  dream,  the  Dream  come  true! 


12 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH 
BY  HERSCHEL  S.  HALL 

IT  was  a  very  black  and  a  very  dirty  street  down  which  I  made 
my  way  that  November  morning  at  half-past  five.  There  was  no 
paving,  there  was  no  sidewalk,  there  were  no  lights.  Rain  had  been 
falling  for  several  days,  and  I  waded  through  seas  of  mud  and 
sloshed  through  lakes  of  water,  longing  for  terra  firma.  There  were 
men  in  front  of  me  and  men  behind  me,  all  plodding  along  through 
the  muck  and  mire,  just  as  I  was  plodding  along,  their  tin  lunch- 
pails  rattling  as  mine  was  rattling.  Some  of  us  were  going  to  work, 
some  of  us  were  going  to  look  for  work — the  steel-mills  lay  some- 
where in  the  darkness  ahead  of  us.  We  were  citizens  of  a  city  where 
the  daylight-saving  scheme  was  being  tried  out,  and  half-past  five 
in  the  morning  in  that  city,  in  the  latter  part  of  November,  is  an 
early  hour  and  a  dark  one. 

We  who  were  not  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  a  magical  piece  of 
brass,  the  showing  of  which  to  a  uniformed  guard  at  the  steel-mills' 
gate  would  cause  the  door  to  light  and  warmth  to  swing  open,  waited 
outside  in  the  street,  where  we  milled  about  in  the  mud,  not  unlike 
a  herd  of  uneasy  cattle.  It  was  cold  out  there.  A  north  wind, 
blowing  straight  in  from  the  lake,  whipped  our  faces  and  hands  and 
penetrated  our  none-too-heavy  clothing. 

"  By  golly,  I  wisht  I  had  a  job  in  there!  "  said  a  shivering  man 
at  my  side,  who  had  been  doing  some  inspecting  through  a  knot-hole 
in  the  high  fence.  "  You  got  a  job  here?  "  he  asked,  glancing 
at  my  pail. 

I  told  him  I  had  been  promised  work  and  had  been  ordered 
to  report. 

"  You're  lucky  to  get  a  job,  and  you  want  to  freeze  on  to  it. 
Jobs  ain't  going'  to  be  any  too  plentiful  this  winter,  and  if  this  war 
stops — good  night!  I've  been  comin'  here  every  morain'  for  two 
weeks,  but  I  can't  get  took.  I  reckon  I'm  kind  o'  small  for  most  of 
the  work  in  there."  He  began  to  kick  his  muddy  shoes  against  the 
fence  and  to  blow  upon  his  hands.  "  Winter's  comin',"  he  sighed. 

A  whistle  blew,  a  gate  swung  open,  and  a  mob  of  men  poured 
178 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  179 

out  into  the  street — the  night  shift  going  off  duty.  Their  faces  looked 
haggard  and  deathly  pale  in  the  sickly  glare  of  the  pale-blue  arcs 
above  us. 

"  Night-work's  no  good,"  said  the  small  man  at  my  side.  "  It 
always  gets  me  in  the  pit  of  the  stummick  somethin'  fierce,  'long 
between  midnight  and  mornin'.  But  you  got  to  do  it  if  you're  goin' 
to  work  in  the  mills." 

A  man  with  a  Turkish  towel  thrown  loosely  about  his  neck  came 
out  of  the  gate  and  looked  critically  at  the  job  hunters.  He  came 
up  to  me.  "  What's  yer  name?  "  he  demanded.  I  told  him.  "  Come 
on!  "  he  grunted. 

We  stopped  before  the  uniformed  guard,  who  wrote  my  name  on 
a  card,  punched  the  card,  and  gave  it  to  me.  "  Come  on!  "  again 
grunted  the  man  with  the  towel.  I  followed  my  guide  into  the  yard, 
over  railroad  tracks,  past  great  piles  of  scrap-iron  and  pig  metal, 
through  clouds  of  steam  and  smoke,  and  into  a  long,  black  building 
where  engines  whistled,  bells  clanged,  and  electric  cranes  rumbled 
and  rattled  overhead.  We  skirted  a  mighty  pit  filled  with  molten 
slag,  and  the  hot  air  and  stifling  fumes  blowing  from  it  struck  me  in 
the  face  and  staggered  me.  We  crept  between  giant  ladles  in  whose 
depths  I  could  hear  the  banging  of  hammers  and  the  shouting  of 
men.  We  passed  beneath  a  huge  trough  through  which  a  white, 
seething  river  of  steel  was  rushing.  I  shrank  back  in  terror  as  the 
sound  of  the  roaring  flood  fell  upon  my  ears,  but  the  man  with 
the  towel,  who  was  walking  briskly  in  front  of  me,  looked  over  his 
shoulder  and  grunted:  "  Come  on!  " 

Through  a  long,  hot  tunnel  and  past  black,  curving  flues,  down 
which  I  saw  red  arms  of  flame  reaching,  we  made  our  way.  We 
came  to  an  iron  stairway,  climbed  it,  and  stepped  out  upon  a  steel 
floor  into  the  Open  Hearth.  "  Come  on!  "  growled  my  guide,  and 
we  walked  down  the  steel  floor,  scattered  over  which  I  saw  groups 
of  men  at  work  in  front  of  big,  house-like  furnaces  out  of  whose 
cavernous  mouths  white  tongues  of  flame  were  leaping.  The  men 
worked  naked  to  the  waist,  or  stripped  to  overalls  and  undershirt, 
and,  watching  them,  I  began  to  wonder  if  I  had  chosen  wisely  in 
seeking  and  accepting  employment  in  this  inferno. 

"  Put  yer  pail  there.  Hang  yer  coat  there.  Set  down  there. 
I'll  tell  the  boss  ye're  here."  And  the  man  with  the  towel  went  away. 

I  was  sitting  opposite  one  of  the  furnaces,  a  square,  squat  struc- 


180  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ture  of  yellow  brick  built  to  hold  seventy-five  tons  of  steel.  There 
were  three  doors  on  the  front  wall,  each  door  having  a  round  opening 
in  the  center,  the  "peep-hole."  Out  through  these  peep-holes 
poured  shafts  of  light  so  white  and  dazzling  they  pained  the  eye 
they  struck.  They  were  as  the  glaring  orbs  of  some  gigantic  uncouth 
monster,  and  as  I  looked  down  the  long  line  of  furnaces  and  saw  the 
three  fiery  eyes  burning  in  each,  the  effect  through  the  dark,  smoke- 
laden  atmosphere  was  grotesquely  weird. 

I  watched  a  man  who  worked  at  one  of  the  doors  of  the  furnace 
nearest  me.  He  had  thrust  a  bar  of  iron  through  the  peep-hole  and 
was  jabbing  and  prying  at  some  object  inside.  Every  ounce  of  his 
strength  he  was  putting  into  his  efforts.  I  could  hear  him  grunt  as 
he  pulled  and  pushed,  and  I  saw  the  perspiration  dripping  from  his 
face  and  naked  arms.  He  withdrew  the  bar — the  end  that  had  been 
inside  the  door  came  out  as  white  and  as  pliable  as  a  hank  of  taffy — 
and  dropped  it  to  the  floor.  He  shouted  some  command  to  some 
invisible  person,  and  the  door  rose  slowly  and  quietly,  disclosing  to 
me  a  great,  snow-white  cavern  in  whose  depths  bubbled  and  boiled 
a  seething  lake  of  steel. 

With  a  quick  movement  of  his  hand  the  workman  dropped  a  pair 
of  dark-colored  spectacles  before  his  eyes,  and  his  arms  went  up 
before  his  face  to  shield  it  from  the  withering  blast  that  poured  out 
through  the  open  door.  There  he  stood,  silhouetted  against  that 
piercing  light,  stooping  and  peering,  tiptoeing  and  bending,  cring- 
ing and  twisting,  as  he  tried  to  examine  something  back  in  the  fur- 
nace. Then  with  another  shout  he  caused  the  door  to  slip  down 
into  its  place. 

He  came  walking  across  the  floor  to  where  I  sat  and  stopped  in 
front  of  me.  The  sweat  in  great  drops  fell  from  his  blistered  face, 
ran  in  tiny  rivulets  from  his  arms  and  hands,  and  splashed  on  the 
iron  floor.  He  trembled,  he  gasped  for  breath,  and  I  thought  he 
was  going  to  sink  down  from  pure  exhaustion,  when,  to  my  surprise, 
he  deliberately  winked  at  me. 

"  Ought  never  to  have  left  the  farm,  ought  we?  Eh,  Buddy?  " 
he  said  with  a  sweaty  chuckle.  And  that  was  my  introduction  to 
Pete,  the  best  open-hearth  man  I  ever  knew,  a  good  fellow,  clean 
and  honest. 

"  Mike,  put  this  guy  to  wheeling  in  manganese,"  said  a  voice 
behind  me,  and  I  turned  and  saw  the  boss.  "  Eighteen  hundred  at 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  181 

Number  Four  and  twenty-two  hundred  at  Number  Six.     Where's 
your  pass?  "  he  asked  me. 

•  I  handed  him  the  card  the  uniformed  watchman  at  the  gate  had 
given  me,  and  he  walked  away.  As  he  went  I  heard  him  say  to  the 
workman,  Pete,  with  something  like  a  snarl  in  his  voice:  "  Pull  your 
gas  down,  you  fool!  " 

"  Get  that  wheelbarrer  over  yender  and  foller  me,"  instructed 
Mike,  a  little,  old,  white-haired  Irishman  who  was,  as  I  learned 
afterward,  called  "  maid  of  all  work  "  about  the  plant.  I  picked  up 
the  heavy  iron  wheelbarrow  and  trundled  it  after  him,  out  through 
a  runway  to  a  detached  building  where  the  various  alloys  and  re- 
fractories used  in  steel-making  were  kept. 

"  Now,  then,  you  load  your  wheelbarrer  up  with  this  here 
ma'ganese  and  weigh  it  over  on  them  scales  yender,  and  then  wheel 
it  in  and  put  it  behind  Number  Four,"  Mike  told  me.  "  Eighteen 
hundred  pounds  to  that  furnace.  Then  you  wheel  in  twenty-two 
hunderd  pounds  to  Number  Six.  I'll  be  watchin'  for  you  when  you 
bring  in  the  first  load,  and  show  you  where  to  dump  it." 

It  was  cold  in  the  manganese  bins.  A  small  yellow  electric  lamp 
disclosed  to  my  eyes  a  great  pile  of  angular  chunks  of  gray  metal. 
I  found  the  pieces  surprisingly  heavy.  I  began  throwing  them  into 
my  wheelbarrow  and  had  nearly  filled  it  when  I  heard  a  laugh.  Look- 
ing up  I  saw  a  big,  red  face  framed  in  the  one  window  of  the  bin. 

"  Wot  ye  think  ye're  goin'  to  do  with  that  ma'ganese,  young 
feller?  "  demanded  Red  Face. 

"  Wheel  it  in  and  put  it  behind  Number  Four  furnace," 
I  replied. 

"  I  want  to  see  yer  when  yer  do  it,"  chuckled  Red  Face.  "  Yer 
must  be  some  little  horse!  D'ye  know  how  much  yer  got  on  that 
buggy?  About  eight  hunderd  pounds!  Try  to  heft  it." 

I  took  hold  of  the  handles  and  lifted.  I  could  not  budge  the  load. 
Red  Face  gave  another  chuckle  and  disappeared.  I  threw  out  about 
three-fourths  of  the  load,  weighed  the  remainder,  and  found  I  had 
nearly  two  hundred  pounds.  This  I  wheeled  in  and  put  behind  the 
furnace,  where  it  would  be  used  when  the  furnace  was  tapped. 

"  Why  is  manganese  put  into  the  steel?  "  I  asked  Pete  on  one  of 
my  trips  past  his  furnace. 

"It  settles  it,  toughens  it  up,  and  makes  it  so  it'll  roll," 
he  answered. 


182  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

A  few  days  later  I  asked  one  of  the  chemists  about  the  plant  the 
same  question.  "  It  absorbs  the  occluded  gases  in  the  molten  steel, 
hardens  it,  and  imparts  the  properties  of  ductility  and  malleability," 
was  his  reply.  I  preferred  Pete's  elucidation. 

All  day  I  trundled  the  iron  wheelbarrow  back  and  forth  along  the 
iron  floor,  wheeling  in  managanese,  magnesite,  dolomite,  ferro-silicon, 
fire-clay,  sulphur  rock,  fluor-spar  and  spiegeleisen.  All  day  I  watched 
service  cars  rolling  into  the  long  building  loaded  with  pig-iron,  scrap- 
iron,  and  limestone.  I  watched  the  powerful  electric  cranes  at  work 
picking  up  the  heavy  boxes  of  material  and  dumping  their  contents 
into  the  furnaces.  I  watched  the  tapping  of  the  "  heats,"  when  the 
dams  holding  in  the  boiling  lakes  would  be  broken  down  and  the  fiery 
floods  would  go  rushing  and  roaring  into  the  ladles,  these  to  be 
whisked  away  to  the  ingot  moulds.  And  I  watched  the  men  at  work, 
saw  the  strain  they  were  under,  saw  the  risks  they  took,  and  wondered 
if,  after  a  few  days,  I  could  be  doing  what  they  were  doing. 

"  It  is  all  very  interesting,"  I  said  to  Pete,  as  I  stood  near  him, 
waiting  for  a  crane  to  pass  by. 

He  grinned.  "  Uh-huh!  But  you'll  get  over  it.  'Bout  to-morrow 
mornin',  when  your  clock  goes  rattlety-bang  and  you  look  to  see 
what's  up  and  find  it's  five  o'clock,  you'll  not  be  thinkin'  it  so  inter- 
esting oh,  no!  Let's  see  your  hands."  He  laughed  when  he  saw 
the  blisters  the  handles  of  the  wheelbarrow  had  developed. 

Pete  was  right.  When  my  alarm-lock  awakened  me  next  morning 
and  I  started  to  get  out  of  bed  I  groaned  in  agony.  Every  muscle 
of  my  body  ached.  I  fancied  my  joints  creaked  as  I  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  couch  vainly  endeavoring  to  get  them  to  working  freely  and 
easily.  The  breakfast  bell  rang  twice,  but  hurry  I  could  not. 

"  You'll  be  late  to  work!  The  others  have  gone!  "  called  the 
landlady.  I  managed  to  creak  downstairs.  My  pail  was  packed 
and  she  had  tied  up  an  extra  lunch  in  a  newspaper.  "  You  can't  stop 
to  eat,  if  you  want  to  get  to  work  on  time,"  she  said.  "  Your  break- 
fast is  in  this  paper — eat  it  when  you  get  to  the  mills." 

I  stumbled  away  in  the  darkness,  groaning  and  gasping,  and 
found  my  way  to  the  black  and  dirty  street.  The  mud  was  frozen 
hard  now,  and  the  pools  of  water  were  ice-covered,  and  my  heavy 
working  shoes  thumped  and  bumped  along  the  dismal  road  in  a 
remarkably  noisy  manner. 

The  number  of  job  hunters  was  larger  this  morning.     Among 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  183 

them  I  saw  the  small  man  who  could  not  "  get  took,"  and  again  he 
was  peeking  wishfully  through  the  knot-hole  in  the  fence. 

"  You're  on,  eh?  "  he  said  when  he  spied  me.  "  By  golly,  I 
wisht  I  was.  Say,  you  haven't  got  a  dime  in  your  pants  that  you 
could  spare  a  feller,  have  you?  "  I  discovered  a  dime. 

I  showed  my  brass  check — a  timekeeper  had  given  me  one  the 
day  before,  Number  1266 — to  the  uniformed  watchman.  He  waved 
me  on,  and  I  entered  the  gate  just  as  the  whistle  blew.  A  minute 
later  and  I  would  have  been  docked  a  half-hour. 

Mike,  "  maid  of  all  work,"  took  me  in  hand  as  soon  as  I  came 
on  the  floor  and  proceeded  to  give  me  a  few  pointers.  "  I  kept  me 
eye  on  ye  all  day  yestiddy,  and  ye  fair  disgoosted  me  with  the  way 
ye  cavorted  round  with  that  Irish  buggy.  As  though  ye  wanted  to 
do  it  all  the  first  day!  Now,  ye're  on  a  twelve-hour  turn  here,  and 
ye  ain't  expected  to  work  like  a  fool.  Ye  want  to  learn  to  spell. 
(Mike  wasn't  referring  to  my  orthographic  shortcomings.)  When 
the  boss  is  in  sight,  keep  movin';  when  he's  not,  then  ease  up.  Dig 
in  like  sin  whenever  ye  glimpse  a  white  shirt  and  collar  movin'  about 
the  plant.  Chances  is  it'll  be  a  fifty-dollar  clerk,  but  until  ye  find  out 
for  sure,  dig  in.  Ye'll  get  in  bad  with  the  boss  if  he  sees  ye  chinnin' 
with  Pete.  He  don't  like  Pete  and  Pete  don't  like  him,  and  I  don't 
blame  Pete.  The  boss  is  solid  bone  from  the  collar-button  up.  He 
has  brainstorms.  Watch  out  for  'em." 

I  followed  much  of  Mike's  advice.  All  that  day  I  trundled  the 
wheelbarrow,  but  with  more — shall  I  call  it  circumspection?  I  made 
an  easier  day  of  it,  and  no  one  objected  to  my  work.  And  as  the 
days  ran  by  I  found  my  muscles  toughening,  and  I  could  hear  the 
alarm-bell  at  five  in  the  morning  without  feeling  compelled  to 
squander  several  valuable  minutes  in  wishing  I  had  been  born  rich. 

For  two  weeks  I  worked  every  day  at  wheeling  in  materials  for 
the  furnaces.  Then  for  one  week  I  worked  with  the  "  maid  of  all 
work,"  sweeping  the  floors  and  keeping  the  place  "  righted  up,"  as 
he  called  it.  Then  I  "  pulled  doors  "  for  a  while;  I  "  ran  tests  "  to 
the  laboratory;  I  "brought  stores";  I  was  general-utility  man. 
Then  one  day,  when  a  workman  dropped  a  piece  of  pig-iron  on  his 
foot  and  was  sent  to  the  hospital,  I  was  put  on  "  second  helping." 

By  good  luck  I  was  sent  to  Pete's  furnace.  Pete  and  I  by  this 
time  were  great  cronies.  Many  a  chat  we  had  had,  back  behind  his 
furnace,  hidden  from  the  prying  eyes  of  the  boss.  I  found  Mike 


184  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

was  right — it  was  just  as  well  to  keep  out  of  his  sight.  I  soon  dis- 
covered that  he  did  not  like  Pete.  In  numberless  mean  and  petty 
ways  did  he  harass  the  man,  trying  to  make  him  do  something  that 
would  give  him  an  excuse  to  discharge  him.  But  Pete  was  naturally 
slow  to  anger,  and  with  admirable  strength  he  kept  his  feelings 
under  control. 

More  than  once  I  saw  the  boss  endeavor  to  lead  Pete  to  strike 
him,  and  more  than  once  I  saw  Pete  laugh  in  the  scoundrel's  face 
and  walk  away,  leaving  him  wild  with  rage.  I  sickened  at  the  ugly 
game  the  boss  played,  and  wondered  when  it  would  end,  and  how. 

"  Oh,  I  s'pose  it'll  come  to  a  head  some  of  these  days,"  Pete  said 
to  me  one  day  as  we  sat  talking  about  the  latest  outbreak  of  the  boss. 
"  I  can't  stand  it  for  always.  But  I'm  goin'  to  make  a  good  job  of 
it  when  it  comes." 

I  was  working  nights  now,  every  other  week.  The  small  man 
at  the  gate — he  had  finally  "  got  took  "  and  was  laboring  in  the  yard 
gang — who  had  told  me  that  "  night- work  is  no  good — it  gets  you 
somethin'  fierce  in  the  pit  of  the  stummick,  long  between  midnight 
and  mornin'  " — he  knew  what  he  was  talking  about.  I  found  night- 
work  absolutely  "  no  good,"  and  it  certainly  did  get  me  "  somethin' 
fierce  in  the  pit  of  the  stummick."  The  small  hours  of  the  night, 
when  the  body's  vitality  is  at  low  ebb,  the  hours  when  one  moans  and 
cries  in  his  sleep,  when  death  comes  oftenest — they  are  the  terror 
of  the  night-worker. 

To  be  aroused  by  a  screaming  whistle  above  your  head  at  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning;  to  seize  a  shovel  and  run  to  the  open  door 
of  a  white-hot  furnace  and  there  in  its  blistering  heat  to  shovel  in 
heavy  ore  and  crushed  limestone  rock  until  every  stitch  of  clothing 
on  your  body  is  soaked  with  perspiration;  to  stagger  away  with 
pulses  thumping,  and  drop  down  upon  a  bench,  only  to  be  ordered 
out  into  a  nipping  winter  air  to  raise  or  lower  a  gas-valve — this  is 
the  kind  of  work  the  poet  did  not  have  in  mind  when  he  wrote  that 
"  Toil  that  ennobles!  "  I  doubt  whether  he  or  any  other  poet  ever 
heard  of  this  two-o 'clock-in- the-morning  toil. 

When  the  "  heat "  was  ready  to  tap  I  would  dig  out  the  "  tap- 
hole."  Another  "  second  helper  "  would  assist  me  in  this  work.  The 
tap-hole,  an  opening  in  the  center  and  lower  part  of  the  back  wall  of 
the  furnace,  is  about  a  foot  in  diameter  and  three  in  length.  It  is 
closed  with  magnesite  and  dolomite  when  the  furnace  is  charged. 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  185 

Digging  this  filling  out  is  dangerous  work — the  steel  is  liable  to  break 
out  and  burn  the  men  who  work  there.  When  we  had  removed  the 
dolomite  from  the  hole  I  would  notify  the  boss.  A  long,  heavy  bar 
was  thrust  through  the  peep-hole  in  the  middle  door,  and  a  dozen 
men  would  "  Ye-ho!  Ye-ho!  "  back  and  forth  on  the  bar  until  it 
broke  through  the  fused  bank  of  magnesite  into  the  tap-hole.  Then 
the  lake  of  steel  would  pour  out  through  a  runner  into  the  ladle. 

This  tapping  a  "  heat "  is  a  magnificent  and  a  startling  sight  to 
the  newcomer.  I  stood  fascinated  when  I  beheld  it  the  first  time. 
A  lake  of  seventy-five  or  eighty  tons  of  sun-white  steel,  bursting  out 
of  furnace  bounds  and  rushing  through  the  runner,  a  raging  river, 
is  a  terrifying  spectacle.  The  eye  aches  as  it  watches  it;  the  body 
shrinks  away  from  the  burning  heat  it  throws  far  out  on  all  sides; 
the  imagination  runs  riot  as  the  seething  flood  roils  and  boils  in 
the  ladle. 

Sometimes  when  we  had  had  a  particularly  hard  spell  of  work — 
when  a  heat  had  melted  "  soft  "  and  we  must  throw  in  extra  pig-iron 
by  hand,  to  raise  the  carbon,  or  when  the  bottom  had  broken  down 
and  we  had  labored  an  hour  or  two  at  "  splashing  "  out  the  steel  that 
had  run  into  the  honeycombs,  or  when  we  would  have  to  build  up 
a  new  back  wall — when  something  of  this  kind  occurred  and  we  had 
pulled  and  grunted  and  sweated  until  we  were  dead  beaten  with 
fatigue  and  exhaustion,  then  Pete  might  be  expected  to  put  his 
well-known  question:  "  Ought  to  have  stayed  on  the  farm,  oughtn't 
we?  Hey,  buddy?  " 

The  foolish  question,  and  his  comical  way  of  asking  it,  always 
made  me  laugh.  Seeing  that  Pete  had  once  been  a  farm  laborer,  the 
remark  does  not  appear  so  silly,  after  all.  It  was  his  way  of  com- 
paring two  kinds  of  work;  it  was  his  favorite  stock  jest.  I  know 
farm  work,  too,  from  pigs  to  potatoes,  and  I  do  not  believe  there  is 
any  kind  of  farm  work  known,  ten  hours  of  which  would  equal 
thirty  minutes  of  "  splashing  "  on  an  open-hearth  furnace,  in  muscle- 
tearing,  nerve-racking,  back-breaking,  sweat-bringing  effort. 

"  Well,  it  was  like  this,"  Pete  began,  when  I  asked  him  to  tell 
me  how  he  came  to  quit  the  farm  and  take  to  steel-making.  "  I  quit 
f armin'  and  become  a  steel-worker  the  same  way  a  fellow  quits  bein'  a 
one-horse  lawyer  and  becomes  a  United  States  senator — by  pure 
accident.  I  was  peggin'  away  on  a  Minnesota  ranch  at  eighteen 
dollars  a  month.  One  summer  when  times  got  slack  on  the  farm  I 


186  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

run  over  to  Duluth  to  look  around  a  bit.  A  fellow  there  offered  me 
a  job  on  a  ore  boat.  I  took  it  and  that  summer  I  put  in  on  the  lakes. 
The  boat  tied  up  that  fall  at  Ashtabula.  I  got  paid  off  there.  I 
thought  I'd  go  back  to  Minnesota  for  the  winter,  so  I  started  to  the 
depot.  I  met  a  nice-talkin'  chap  and  we  swapped  a  few  remi- 
niscences. After  he  had  gone  I  discovered  he'd  taken  my  roll  with 
him.  It  was  late  and  I  had  no  place  to  sleep,  so  I  went  down  to  the 
railroad  yards  and  crawled  in  what  I  thought  was  a  car  of  white 
sand.  Somebody  come  by  and  shut  the  door,  and  I  didn't  get  out 
of  that  car  till  it  was  opened  out  there  at  that  bin  of  spar.  They 
needed  a  man  here  that  day,  so  I  went  to  work,  and  here  I've  been 
ever  since — fourteen  year  this  fall.  I  kind  of  got  the  habit  of  bein' 
round  here,  and  I  s'pose  I'm  done  with  farmin',  but  I  tell  you,  some- 
times I  fairly  wish  I  was  back  draggin'  down  my  eighteen  per  up  in 
Minnesota.  Them  occasions  don't  last  long,  though." 

Pete  and  I  were  working  on  Number  Three  furnace,  the  latest 
type  and  the  "  fastest  "  of  any  in  the  group.  Its  monthly  output  was 
three  or  four  hundred  tons  more  than  that  of  any  other.  It  belonged 
to  Pete  by  rights — he  was  the  oldest  man  on  the  floor,  and  he  was 
regarded  by  all  the  other  furnace-men  as  the  best  "  first  helper  "  in 
the  plant.  No  other  "  first  helper  "  watched  his  roof  so  carefully  as 
did  he.  No  other  could  get  as  many  heats  "  from  a  roof  "  as  did  he. 
For  every  three  hundred  and  fifty  heats  tapped  from  a  furnace  before 
the  furnace  required  a  new  roof,  the  company  gave  the  "  first  helper  " 
a  bonus  of  fifty  dollars.  This  was  to  encourage  them  to  watch  their 
furnaces  closely,  to  see  that  the  gas  did  not  "  touch  "  the  roofs. 

One  morning  Pete  and  I  were  notified  that  we  were  transferred 
to  Number  Ten,  the  oldest,  the  slowest,  and  the  hardest  furnace  to 
work  of  any.  "  Bulger  "  Lewis,  a  Welshman,  a  bosom  friend  of  the 
boss,  was  to  take  Number  Three.  Pete  would  lose  the  bonus  money 
due  in  thirty  days. 

"  What's  this  for?  "  he  demanded  of  the  boss. 

"  Because  you  don't  watch  your  furnace!  "  snarled  the  boss  in 
reply.  "  You've  touched  that  roof!  There  are  icicles  on  it 
right  now!  " 

This  was  a  lie.  Pete  walked  over  to  the  air-valves,  jerked  the 
lever,  and  threw  up  the  middle  door.  "  Show  me  an  icicle  in  there!  " 
he  cried.  "  I'll  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  for  every  one  you 
point  out!  " 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  187 

"  Lower  that  door!  "  roared  the  boss.  "  And  get  down  to 
Number  Ten!  Or  go  get  your  time,  if  you  prefer!  " 

Pete  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  threw  up  his  head  and 
laughed.  Going  to  his  locker,  he  took  out  his  lunch-pail  and  started 
for  Number  Ten. 

"  I  rather  think  I  am  goin'  to  take  a  trip  to  Minnesota  pretty 
soon — to  see  the  folks,  you  know,"  he  said  to  me  that  afternoon. 

Number  Ten  melted  "  soft "  that  day  and  Pete  could  not  get 
the  heat  hot.  We  pigged  steadily  for  two  hours,  but  it  remained 
cold  and  dead.  We  were  played  out  when,  about  four  o'clock,  the 
boss  came  up. 

"  Why  don't  you  get  that  heat  out?  "  he  demanded.  "  You've 
been  ten  hours  on  it  already!  "  Pete  made  no  reply.  "  Where's  a  test- 
bar?  "  He  shoved  the  test-bar  into  the  bath,  moved  it  slowly  back 
and  forth,  and  withdrew  it.  "  She's  hot  now!  Take  her  out!  " 

Pete  looked  at  the  end  of  the  bar.  It  was  ragged,  not  bitten  off 
clean  as  it  would  have  been  had  the  temperature  of  the  bath  been 
right.  "  She's  a  long  way  from  bein'  hot,"  he  said,  pointing  at 
the  test-bar. 

"  Don't  you  dispute  me!  "  roared  the  boss.  "  If  I  say  she's  hot, 
she's  hot!  If  I  tell  you  to  take  her  out,  you  take  her  out!  " 

We  took  out  the  heat.  And  a  miserable  mess  there  was.  It  was 
so  cold  it  froze  up  in  the  tap-hole,  it  froze  up  in  the  runner,  it  froze 
up  in  the  ladle.  The  entire  heat  was  lost.  It  was  an  angry  crew 
of  men  that  worked  with  sledges,  bars,  and  picks  cleaning  up  the 
mess.  I  was  sorry  the  boss  could  not  know  how  much  that  bunch 
of  men  loved  him. 

I  saw  him  approaching  Pete;  I  saw  him  shaking  his  clinched  fist; 
I  heard  an  ugly  word ;  the  lie  was  passed,  a  blow  was  struck,  and  the 
long-expected  fight  was  on. 

Out  on  the  smooth  iron  floor,  in  the  glare  of  the  furnace  flames — 
some  one  had  hoisted  the  three  doors  to  the  top — the  two  enemies 
fought  it  out.  They  were  giants  in  build,  both  of  them,  muscled 
and  thewed  like  gladiators.  It  was  a  brutal,  savage  exhibition. 
The  thud,  thud,  thud  of  bare  fists  on  naked  flesh  was  sickening. 
Once  Pete  trod  on  a  small  piece  of  scrap,  lost  his  balance,  and  went 
down.  With  a  beast-like  cry  the  boss  lunged  forward  and  delib- 
erately kicked  him  in  the  face.  A  yell  of  rage  went  up  from  the 


188  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

men  surrounding  the  pair.  Had  he  offered  to  repeat  it  they  would 
have  been  upon  him. 

But  quicker  than  his  movement  was  Pete's  as  he  leaped  to  his 
feet  and  whirled  to  meet  his  antagonist.  And  now  again  the  sick- 
ening thud,  thud,  thud.  That  and  the  dull  roaring  of  the  gas  as  it 
poured  through  the  ports  were  the  only  sounds. 

Ah!  Thud,  thud — smash!  And  the  boss  reeled,  dropped  to  his 
knees,  swayed  back  and  forth,  and  went  down,  his  head  striking 
the  iron  floor  with  a  bang. 

Pete  took  a  bath  in  a  bosh,  changed  his  clothes,  shook  hands  all 
round,  and  came  seeking  me.  "  Well,  buddy,  I'm  off,"  he  chuckled, 
peeping  at  me  from  a  chink  in  his  swollen  face.  "  Like  as  not  I'll 
be  shuckin'  punkins  up  in  Minnesota  this  time  next  week.  Oh,  no 
use  my  try  in'  to  stick  it  out  here — you  can't  stay,  you  know,  when 
you've  had  a  go  with  the  boss.  So  long!  " 

I  did  not  go  to  work  the  next  day,  nor  the  next.  I  was  deliberat- 
ing whether  I  would  go  back  at  all,  the  morning  of  the  third  day, 
when  the  "  maid  of  all  work  "  came  looking  for  me.  "  Pete  wants 
you  to  come  to  work,"  he  announced. 

"  Pete?  "  I  said,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

"You  said  it!    Pete's  boss  now!  " 

"  No!  " 

"  Yes!  Oh,  the  super,  he  ain't  blind,  he  ain't!  He  knowed  what 
was  goin'  on,  he  did,  and  it  didn't  take  him  long  to  fix  him  when 
he'd  heerd  the  peticlars.  I'll  tell  Pete  you'll  be  comin'  along  soon." 
And  Mike  departed. 

I  went  back  and  resumed  my  old  position  on  Number  Three, 
with  John  Yakabowski,  a  Pole.  Yakabowski  was  an  exceptionally 
able  furnace-man  and  an  agreeable  fellow  workman.  There  was 
great  rejoicing  all  over  the  plant  because  our  old  boss  was  out,  and 
there  was  general  satisfaction  over  Pete's  appointment  to  his  place. 
This  feeling  among  the  men  was  soon  reflected  in  the  output  of  the 
furnaces — our  tonnage  showed  a  steady  increase. 

Pete  was  nervous  and  ill  at  ease  for  a  few  weeks.  To  assume  the 
responsibilities  that  go  with  the  foremanship  of  an  open-hearth  plant 
the  size  of  that  one  was  almost  too  much  for  him.  He  was  afraid  he 
would  make  some  mistake  that  would  show  him  to  be  unworthy  of 
the  trust  the  superintendent  had  placed  in  him. 

"  No  education — that's  where  I'm  weak!  "  he  said  to  me  in  one  of 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  189 

our  confidential  chats.  "  Can't  write,  can't  figger,  can't  talk — don't 
know  nothin'!  It's  embarrassin'!  The  super  tells  me  to  use  two  thou- 
sand of  manganese  on  a  hundred-and-fifty-thousand-pound  charge. 
That's  easy — I  just  tell  a  hunky  to  wheel  in  two  thousand.  But 
s'pose  that  lunk-head  out  in  them  scales  goes  wrong,  and  charges  in 
a  hundred  and  sixty-five  thousand  pounds  and  doesn't  tell  me  until 
ten  minutes  before  we're  ready  to  tap — how  am  I  goin'  to  figger  out 
how  much  more  manganese  to  put  in?  Or  when  the  chief  clerk 
writes  me  a  nice  letter,  requestin'  a  statement  showin'  how  many 
of  my  men  have  more  than  ten  children,  how  many  of  'em  can  read 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  and  how  many  of  'em  eat  oatmeal 
for  breakfast,  why,  I'm  up  against  it,  I  tell  you!  No  education!  I 
reckon  I  ought  never  to've  left  the  farm — hey,  buddy?  " 

I  understood  Pete's  gentle  hint,  and  I  took  care  of  his  clerical 
work,  writing  what  few  letters  he  had  to  send  out,  making  up  his 
statements,  doing  his  calculating,  and  so  forth. 

Six  months  passed.  Pete  had  "  made  good."  The  management 
was  highly  pleased  with  him  as  a  melter.  Success  had  come  to  me, 
too,  in  a  modest  way — I  had  been  given  a  furnace — I  was  now  a 
"  first  helper."  It  was  about  the  time  I  took  the  furnace  that  I  began 
to  notice  a  falling  off  in  the  number  of  requests  from  Pete  for  assist- 
ance. I  thought  little  of  it,  supposing  that  he  was  getting  his  work 
done  by  one  of  the  weighers.  But  one  night  when  there  was  a  lull 
in  operations  and  I  went  down  to  his  office  to  have  a  chat  with  him, 
I  found  him  seated  at  his  little  desk  poring  over  an  arithmetic.  Scat- 
tered about  in  front  of  him  were  a  number  of  sheets  of  paper  covered 
with  figures.  He  looked  up  at  me  and  grinned  in  a  rather  shame- 
faced manner. 

"  Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?  "  I  said.  "  Now  I  understand  why  I  am  no 
longer  of  any  use  to  the  boss!  " 

"  Well,  I  just  had  to  do  something"  he  laughed.  "  Couldn't 
afford  to  go  right  on  bein'  an  ignorameous  all  the  time." 

"  Are  you  studying  it  out  alone?  " 

"You  bet  I  ain't!  I'd  never  get  ther  if  I  was!  I've  got  a  teacher, 
a  private  teacher.  Swell,  eh?  He  comes  every  other  night,  when 
I'm  workin'  days,  and  every  other  afternoon,  when  I'm  workin' 
nights.  Gee,  but  I'm  a  bonehead!  He's  told  me  so  a  dozen  times, 
but  the  other  day  he  said  he  thought  I  was  softenin'  up  a  bit." 


190  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Good  old  Pete!  I  left  him  that  night  with  my  admiration  for 
the  man  increased  a  hundred  times. 

Another  six  months  passed,  six  months  of  hard,  grinding,  wearing 
toil,  and  yet  a  six  months  I  look  back  upon  with  genuine  pleasure. 
I  now  had  the  swing  of  the  work  and  it  came  easy;  conditions  about 
the  plant  under  Pete's  supervision  were  ideal ;  I  was  making  progress 
in  the  profession  I  had  adopted ;  we  were  making  good  money.  Then 
came  the  black  day. 

How  quickly  it  happened !  I  had  tapped  my  furnace  and  the  last 
of  the  heat  had  run  into  the  ladle.  "  Hoist  away!  "  I  heard  Pete 
shout  to  the  crane-man.  The  humming  sound  of  the  crane  motors 
getting  into  action  came  to  my  ears.  I  took  a  look  at  my  roof,  threw 
in  a  shovelful  of  spar,  turned  on  the  gas,  and  walked  toward  the 
rear  of  the  furnace.  The  giant  crane  was  groaning  and  whining  as 
it  slowly  lifted  its  eighty-ton  burden  from  the  pit  where  the  ladle 
stood.  It  was  then  five  or  six  feet  above  the  pit's  bottom.  Pete 
was  leaning  over  the  railing  of  the  platform  directly  in  front  of 
the  rising  ladle. 

Suddenly  something  snapped  up  there  among  the  shafts  and 
cables.  I  saw  the  two  men  in  the  crane  cab  go  swarming  up  the 
escape-ladder.  I  saw  the  ladle  drop  as  a  broken  cable  went  flying  out 
of  a  sheave.  A  great  white  wave  of  steel  washed  over  the  ladle's 
rim,  and  another,  and  another. 

Down  upon  a  shallow  pool  of  water  that  a  leaking  hose  had 
formed,  the  steel  wave  splashed,  and  as  it  struck  the  explosion  came. 
I  was  blown  from  my  feet  and  rolled  along  the  floor.  The  air  was 
filled  with  bits  of  fiery  steel,  slag,  brick  and  debris  of  all  kinds.  I 
crawled  to  shelter  behind  a  column  and  there  beat  out  the  flames 
that  were  burning  my  clothing  in  a  half-dozen  places.  Then,  groping 
through  the  pall  of  dust  and  smoke  that  choked  the  building,  I  went 
to  look  for  Pete. 

Near  the  place  where  I  had  seen  him  standing  when  the  ladle 
fell  I  found  him.  Two  workmen  who  had  been  crouching  behind 
a  wall  when  the  explosion  came,  and  were  unhurt,  were  tearing  his 
burning  clothes  from  his  seared  and  blackened  body.  I  saw  an  ugly 
wound  on  his  head  where  a  flying  missile  of  some  kind  had  struck 
him,  and  his  eyes  had  been  shot  full  of  dust  and  bits  of  steel.  Some- 
body brought  a  blanket  and  we  wrapped  it  about  him.  We  doubted 
if  he  lived,  but  as  we  carried  him  back  I  noticed  he  was  trying  to 


THE  OPEN  HEARTH  191 

speak,  and,  stooping,  I  caught  the  words:  "  Ought  never  to  have  left 
the  farm,  ought  we?    Hey,  buddy?  " 

That  was  the  last  time  I  ever  heard  Pete  speak.  That  was  the 
last  time  I  ever  saw  him  alive. 

Two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Sitting  at  the  little  desk  where  I 
found  Pete  that  night  poring  over  his  arithmetic,  I  have  been  writing 
down  my  early  experiences  in  the  Open  Hearth.  Here  comes  Yaka- 
bowski  with  a  test.  I  know  exactly  what  he  will  say:  "  Had  I  better 
give  her  a  dose  of  ore?  "  Numbers  Three,  Six,  and  Ten  are  "  work- 
ing." I  must  bestir  myself.  Two  o'clock  in  the  morning!  The 
small  man  at  the  gate  was  right:  Night-work  is  no  good!  It  has  got 
me  "  somethin'  fierce  in  the  pit  of  the  stummick  "  to-night. 

I  was  mistaken;  Yakabowski  doesn't  ask  his  customary  ques- 
tion. He  looks  at  me  curiously.  "  You  don't  look  good,  boss,"  he 
says.  "  You  sick,  maybe?  " 

Yes,  I'm  sick — sick  at  the  "  pit  of  the  stummick."  I  always  am 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  I'm  on  night  shift.  I  stretch,  I 
yawn,  I  shudder. 

"  Ought  never  to  have  left  the  farm,  ought  we?  Hey,  Yaka- 
bowski? "  I  say  to  the  big  Pole. 


THE  IRON  WOMAN 
BY  MARGARET  DELAND 

IT  was  in  the  late  sixties  that  the  children  played  in  the  apple- 
tree;  at  that  time  the  Maitland  house  was  indeed,  as  poor  little  Blair 
said,  "  ugly."  Twenty  years  before,  its  gardens  and  meadows  had 
stretched  over  to  the  river;  but  the  estate  had  long  ago  come  down 
in  size  and  gone  up  in  dollars.  Now,  there  was  scarcely  an  acre  of 
sooty  green  left,  and  it  was  pressed  upon  by  the  yards  of  the  Mait- 
land Works,  and  almost  islanded  by  railroad  tracks.  Grading  had 
left  the  stately  and  dilapidated  old  house  somewhat  above  the  level 
of  a  street  noisy  with  incessant  teaming,  and  generally  fetlock-deep 
in  black  mud.  The  house  stood  a  little  back  from  the  badly  paved 
sidewalk;  its  meager  dooryard  was  inclosed  by  an  iron  fence — a  row 
of  black  and  rusted  spears,  dotted  under  their  tines  with  innumerable 
gray  cocoons. 

But  it  was  no  wonder  that  Blair,  the  son  and  heir,  called  it  ugly 
— the  house,  the  orchard,  the  Works — even  his  mother,  in  her  rusty 
black  alpaca  dress,  sitting  at  her  desk  in  the  big,  dingy  dining-room, 
driving  her  body  and  soul,  and  the  bodies  and  souls  of  her  workmen 
— all  for  the  sake  of  the  little,  shrinking  boy.  Poor  mother! 
Poor  son! 

In  the  days  when  the  four  children  played  in  the  orchard  and 
had  lessons  with  Miss  White  or  Cherry-pie,  in  the  school-room  in 
Mr.  Ferguson's  garret,  and  were  "  treated  "  by  Blair  to  candy  or 
pink  ice-cream — even  in  those  days  Mercer  was  showing  signs  of 
what  it  was  ultimately  to  become:  the  apotheosis  of  materialism  and 
vulgarity.  Iron  was  entering  into  its  soul.  It  thought  extremely  well 
of  itself;  when  a  new  mill  was  built,  or  a  new  furnace  blown  in,  it 
thought  still  better  of  itself.  It  prided  itself  upon  its  growth;  in  fact, 
its  complacency,  its  ugliness  and  its  size  kept  pace  with  one  another. 

"  Look  at  our  output,"  Sarah  Maitland  used  to  brag  to  her 
general  manager,  Mr.  Robert  Ferguson;  "  and  look  at  our  churches! 
We  have   more   churches  for  our   size   than   any   town   west   of 
the  Alleghanies." 
192 


THE  IRON  WOMAN  193 

"  We  need  more  jails  than  any  town,  east  or  west,"  Mr.  Ferguson 
retorted,  grimly. 

Mrs.  Maitland  avoided  the  deduction.  Her  face  was  full  of 
pride.  "  You  just  wait!  We'll  be  the  most  important  city  in  this 
country  yet,  because  we  will  hold  the  commerce  of  the  world  right 
here  in  our  mills!  "  She  put  out  her  great  open  palm,  and  slowly 
closed  the  strong,  beautiful  fingers  into  a  gripping  fist.  "  The  com- 
merce of  the  world,  right  here!  "  she  said,  thrusting  the  clenched 
hand,  that  quivered  a  little,  almost  into  his  face. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  street,  opposite  the  Maitland  house,  was 
a  huddle  of  wooden  tenements.  Some  of  them  were  built  on  piles, 
and  seemed  to  stand  on  stilts,  holding  their  draggled  skirts  out  of 
the  mud  of  their  untidy  yards;  some  sagged  on  rotting  sills,  leaning 
shoulder  to  shoulder  as  if  to  prop  one  another  up.  From  each  front 
door  a  shaky  flight  of  steps  ran  down  to  the  unpaved  sidewalk,  where 
pigs  and  children  and  hens,  and  the  daily  tramp  of  feet  to  and  from 
the  Maitland  Works,  had  beaten  the  earth  into  a  hard,  black  sur- 
face— or  a  soft  black  surface  when  it  rained.  These  little  huddling 
houses  called  themselves  Maitland's  Shantytown,  and  they  looked 
up  at  the  Big  House,  standing  in  melancholy  isolation  behind  its  fence 
of  iron  spears,  with  the  pride  that  is  common  to  us  all  when  we  find 
ourselves  in  the  company  of  our  betters.  Back  of  the  little  houses  was 
a  strip  of  waste  land,  used  for  a  dump;  and  beyond  it,  bristling 
against  the  sky,  the  long  line  of  Mercer's  stacks  and  chimneys. 

In  spite  of  such  surroundings,  the  Big  House,  even  as  late  as  the 
early  seventies,  was  impressive.  It  was  square,  with  four  great 
chimneys,  and  long  windows  that  ran  from  floor  to  ceiling.  Its 
stately  entrance  and  its  two  curving  flights  of  steps  were  of  white 
marble,  and  so  were  the  lintels  of  the  windows;  but  the  stone  was  so 
stained  and  darkened  with  smoky  years  of  rains  and  river  fogs,  that 
its  only  beauty  lay  in  the  noble  lines  that  grime  and  time  had  not 
been  able  to  destroy.  A  gnarled  and  twisted  old  wistaria  roped  the 
doorway,  and,  crawling  almost  to  the  roof,  looped  along  the  eaves; 
in  May  it  broke  into  a  froth  of  exquisite  purple  and  faint  green, 
and  for  a  week  the  garland  of  blossoms,  murmurous  with  bees,  lay 
clean  and  lovely  against  the  narrow,  old  bricks  which  had  once 
been  painted  yellow.  Outside,  the  house  had  a  distinction  which  no 
superficial  dilapidation  could  mar;  but  inside  distinction  was  almost 
lost  in  the  commonplace,  if  not  in  actual  ugliness.  The  double  par- 
13 


194  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

lors  on  the  right  of  the  wide  hall  had  been  furnished  in  the  complete 
vulgarity  of  the  sixties;  on  the  left  was  the  library,  which  had  long 
ago  been  taken  by  Mrs.  Maitland  as  a  bedroom,  for  the  practical 
reason  that  it  opened  into  the  dining-room;  so  her  desk  was  easily 
accessible  at  any  time  of  night,  should  her  passion  for  toil  seize  her 
after  working-hours  were  over.  The  walls  of  this  room  were  still 
covered  with  books,  that  no  one  ever  read.  Mrs.  Maitland  had  no 
time  to  waste  on  reading;  "  I  live"  she  used  to  say;  "  I  don't  read 
about  living!  " 

.  The  office  dining-room  was  of  noble  proportions  and  in  its  day 
must  have  had  great  dignity;  but  in  Blair's  childhood  its  day  was 
over.  Above  the  dingy  white  wainscoting  the  landscape  paper  his 
grandfather  had  brought  from  France  in  the  thirties  had  faded  into 
a  blur  of  blues  and  buffs.  The  floor  was  uncarpeted  save  for  a 
Persian  rug,  whose  colors  had  long  since  dulled  to  an  even  grime. 
At  one  end  of  the  room  was  Mrs.  Maitland 's  desk;  at  the  other, 
filing-cases,  and  two  smaller  desks  where  clerks  worked  at  ledgers 
or  drafting.  The  four  French  windows  were  uncurtained,  and  the 
inside  shutters  folded  back,  so  that  the  silent  clerks  might  have  the 
benefit  of  every  ray  of  daylight  filtering  wanly  through  Mercer's 
murky  air.  A  long  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room;  generally 
it  was  covered  with  blue-prints,  or  the  usual  impedimenta  of  an  office. 
But  it  was  not  an  office  table;  it  was  of  mahogany,  scratched  and 
dim  to  be  sure,  but  matching  the  ancient  claw-footed  sideboard  whose 
top  was  littered  with  letter  files,  silver  teapots  and  sugar-bowls,  and 
stacks  of  newspapers.  Three  times  a  day  one  end  of  this  table  was 
cleared,  and  the  early  breakfast,,  or  the  noon  dinner,  or  the  rather 
heavy  supper  eaten  rapidly  and  for  the  most  part  in  silence.  Mrs. 
Maitland  was  silent  because  she  was  absorbed  in  thought;  Nannie 
and  Blair  were  silent  because  they  were  afraid  to  talk.  But  the  two 
children  gave  a  touch  of  humanness  to  the  ruthless  room. 

"  Blair,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you  before  you  go.  Be  at 
my  Office  at  the  Works  at  ten-fifteen."  She  looked  at  him  amiably, 
then  pushed  back  her  chair.  "Nannie!  Get  my  bonnet.  Come! 
Hurry!  I'm  late!  " 

Nannie,  running,  brought  the  bonnet,  a  bunch  of  rusty  black 
crepe,  with  strings  frayed  with  many  tyings.  "  Oh,  mamma,"  she 
said  softly,  "  do  let  me  get  you  a  new  bonnet?  " 

Mrs.    Maitland    was    not    listening.      "  Harris!  "    she    called 


THE  IRON  WOMAN  195 

loudly,  "  tell  Watson  to  have  those  roller  figures  for  me  at  eleven. 
And  I  want  the  linen  tracing — Bates  will  know  what  I  mean — at  noon 
without  fail.  Nannie,  see  that  there's  boiled  cabbage  for  dinner." 

A  moment  later  the  door  banged  behind  her.  The  abrupt  silence 
was  like  a  blow.  Nannie  and  Harris  caught  their  breaths;  it  was  as 
if  the  oxygen  had  been  sucked  out  of  the  air;  there  was  a  minute 
before  any  one  breathed  freely.  Then  Blair  flung  up  his  arms  in  a 
wordless  protest;  he  actually  winced  with  pain.  He  glanced  around 
the  unlovely  room;  at  the  table,  with  its  ledgers  and  clutter  of  un- 
matched china — old  Canton,  and  heavy  white  earthenware,  and  odd 
cups  and  saucers  with  splashing  decorations  which  had  pleased  Har- 
ris's eye ;  at  the  files  of  newspapers  on  the  sideboard,  the  grimy  walls, 
the  untidy  fireplace.  "  Thank  Heaven !  I'm  going  off  to-day.  I 
wish  I  need  never  come  back,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  Blair,  that  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  say!  " 

"  It  may  be  dreadful,  but  that's  the  way  I  feel.  I  can't  help  my 
feelings,  can  I?  The  further  mother  and  I  are  apart,  the  better  we 
love  each  other.  Well!  I  suppose  I've  got  to  go  and  see  her  bossing 
a  lot  of  men,  instead  of  sitting  at  home,  like  a  lady." 

Sarah  Maitland  had  gone  over  to  her  office  in  a  glow  of  personal 
pleasure  that  warmed  up  the  details  of  business.  She  intended  to  take 
Blair  that  morning  through  the  Works — not  as  he  had  often  gone 
before,  tagging  after  her,  a  frightened  child,  a  reluctant  boy — but  as 
the  prince,  formally  looking  over  the  kingdom  into  which  he  was 
so  soon  to  come!  Nobody  would  have  imagined  it,  but  the  big, 
ungainly  woman  dreamed!  Dreamed  of  her  boy,  of  his  business  suc- 
cess, of  his  love,  of  his  life.  It  was  her  purpose,  on  this  particular 
morning,  to  tell  him,  after1  they  had  gone  through  the  Works,  just 
where,  when  he  graduated,  he  was  to  begin.  Not  at  the  bottom! 
No,  Blair  need  not  start  at  the  bottom;  he  could  begin  pretty  well  up 
at  the  top;  and  he  should  have  a  salary.  What  an  incentive  that 
would  be!  First  she  would  tell  him  that  now,  when  he  was  going  to 
college,  she  meant  to  increase  his  allowance;  then  she  would  tell  him 
about  the  salary  he  would  have  when  he  got  to  work.  How  happy 
he  would  be!  To  have  all  the  pocket-money  he  wanted,  and  a  great 
business  to  look  forward  to;  to  have  work — work!  the  finest  thing 
in  the  world — all  ready  to  his  hand — what  more  could  a  human  being 
desire?  At  the  office,  she  swept  through  the  morning  business  with 
a  speed  that  took  her  people  off  their  feet.  Once  or  twice  she  glanced 


196  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

at  the  clock;  Blair  was  always  unpunctual.    "  He'll  get  that  knocked 
out  of  him  when  he  gets  into  business,"  she  thought,  grimly. 

It  was  eleven  before  he  came  loitering  across  the  Yards.  His 
mother,  lifting  her  head  for  a  moment  from  her  desk,  and  glancing 
impatiently  out  of  the  dirt-begrimed  office  window,  saw  him  coming, 
and  caught  the  gleam  of  his  patent-leather  shoes  as  he  skirted  a 
puddle  just  outside  the  door.  "  Well,  Master  Blair,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, flinging  down  her  pen,  "  you'll  forget  those  pretty  boots  when 
you  get  to  walking  around  your  Works!  " 

Blair,  dawdling  through  the  outer  office,  found  his  way  to  her 
sanctum,  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  her  desk.  He  glanced  at  her 
shrinkingly,  and  looked  away.  Her  bonnet  was  crooked;  her  hair 
was  hanging  in  wisps  at  the  back  of  her  neck;  her  short  skirt  showed 
the  big,  broad-soled  foot  twisted  round  the  leg  of  her  chair.  Blair 
saw  the  muddy  sole  of  that  shoe,  and  half  closed  his  eyes. 

"You're  late,"  she  said;  then,  without  stopping  for  his  excuses, 
she  proceeded  with  the  business  in  hand.  "  I'm  going  to  increase 
your  allowance." 

Blair  sat  up  in  astonishment. 

"  I  mean  while  you're  at  college.  After  that  I  shall  stop  the 
allowance  entirely,  and  you  will  go  to  work.  You  will  go  on  a 
salary,  like  any  other  man."  Her  mouth  clicked  shut  in  a  tight  line 
of  satisfaction. 

The  color  flew  into  Blair's  face.  "  Why!  "  he  said.  "  You  are 
awfully  good,  mother.  Really,  I " 

He  got  up  and  followed  his  mother  through  the  Yards — vast, 
hideous  wastes,  scorching  in  the  September  heats,  full  of  endless  rows 
of  pig,  piles  of  scrap,  acres,  it  seemed  to  Blair,  of  slag.  The  screech- 
ing clamor  of  the  place  reeked  with  the  smell  of  rust  and  rubbish  and 
sour  earth,  and  the  air  was  vibrant  with  the  clatter  of  the  "  buggies  " 
on  the  narrow-gauge  tracks  that  ran  in  a  tangled  network  from  one 
furnace  to  another.  Blair,  trudging  along  behind  his  mother,  cring- 
ing at  the  ugliness  of  everything  about  him,  did  not  dare  to  speak. 

Mrs.  Maitland  walked  through  her  Iron  Works  as  some  women 
walk  through  a  garden — lovingly.  She  talked  to  her  son  rapidly; 
this  was  so  and  so;  there  was  such  and  such  a  department;  in  that 
new  shed  she  meant  to  put  the  draftsmen;  over  there  the  timekeeper; 
she  paused.  Blair  had  left  her,  and  was  standing  in  an  open  doorway 
of  the  foundry,  watching,  breathlessly,  a  jibcrane  bearing  a  great 


THE  IRON  WOMAN  197 

ladle  full  of  tons  of  liquid  metal  that  shimmered  above  its  white-hot 
expanse  with  the  shifting  blue  flames  of  escaping  gas.  Seething  and 
bubbling,  the  molten  iron  slopped  in  a  flashing  film  over  the  side 
of  the  caldron,  every  drop,  as  it  struck  the  black  earth,  rebounding  in 
a  thousand  exploding  points  of  fire.  Above  the  swaying  ladle,  far 
up  in  the  glooms  under  the  roof,  the  shadows  were  pierced  by  the 
lurching  dazzle  of  arc-lamps;  but  when  the  ladle  tipped,  and  with  a 
crackling  roar  the  stream  of  metal  flowed  into  a  mould,  the  sizzling 
violet  gleam  of  the  lamps  was  abruptly  extinguished  by  the  intol- 
erable glare  of  light. 

"  Oh,"  Blair  said  breathlessly,  "  how  wonderful!  " 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  his  mother  said.  "  Thomas,  here,  can  move 
the  lever  that  tips  the  ladle  with  his  two  fingers — and  out  comes  the 
iron  as  neatly  as  cream  out  of  a  jug!  " 

Blair  was  so  entirely  absorbed  in  the  fierce  magnificence  of  light, 
and  in  the  glowing  torsos  of  the  moulders,  planted  as  they  were 
against  the  profound  shadows  of  the  foundry,  that  when  she  said, 
"  Come  on!  "  he  did  not  hear  her.  Mrs.  Maitland,  standing  with 
her  hands  on  her  hips,  her  feet  well  apart,  held  her  head  high;  she 
was  intensely  gratified  by  his  interest.  "  If  his  father  had  only  lived 
to  see  him!  "  she  said  to  herself.  In  her  pride,  she  almost  swaggered; 
she  nodded,  chuckling,  to  the  moulder  at  her  elbow: 

"  He  takes  to  it  like  a  duck  to  water,  doesn't  he,  Jim?  "  "  And," 
said  Jim,  telling  the  story  afterward,  "  I  allowed  I'd  never  seen  a 
young  feller  as  knowing  about  castings  as  him.  She  took  it  down 
straight.  You  can't  pile  it  on  too  thick  for  a  woman  about  her 
young  'un." 

"  Somebody  ought  to  paint  it,"  Blair  said,  under  his  breath. 

Mrs.  Maitland's  face  glowed;  she  came  and  stood  beside  him  a 
moment  in  silence,  resting  her  big,  dirty  hand  on  his  shoulder.  Then 
she  said,  half  sheepishly,  "  I  call  that  ladle  the '  cradle  of  civilization.' 
Think  what's  inside  of  it!  There  are  rails,  that  will  hold  New  York 
and  San  Francisco  together,  and  engines  and  machines  for  the  whole 
world;  there  are  telegraph  wires  that  will  bring — think  of  all  the 
kinds  of  news  they  will  bring,  Blair — wars,  and  births  of  babies! 
There  are  bridges  in  it,  and  pens  that  may  write — well,  maybe 
love-letters,"  she  said,  with  sly  and  clumsy  humor,  "  or  even  write, 
perhaps,  the  liberty  of  a  race,  as  Lincoln's  pen  wrote  it.  Yes!  "  she 
said,  her  face  full  of  luminous  abstraction, "  the  cradle  of  civilization! " 


198  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

He  could  hardly  hear  her  voice  in  the  giant  tumult  of  exploding 
metal  and  the  hammering  and  crashing  in  the  adjacent  mill;  but 
when  she  said  that,  he  looked  round  at  her  with  the  astonishment  of 
one  who  sees  a  familiar  face  where  he  has  supposed  he  would  see  a 
stranger.  He  forgot  his  shame  in  having  a  mother  who  ran  an  iron- 
mill  ;  a  spark  of  sympathy  leaped  between  them  as  real  in  its  invisibil- 
ity as  the  white  glitter  of  the  molten  iron  sputtering  over  their  heads. 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  it's  all  that,  and  it  is  magnificent,  too!  " 

"  Come  on!  "  she  said,  with  a  proud  look.  Over  her  shoulder 
she  flung  back  at  him  figures  and  statistics;  she  told  him  of  the  tons 
of  bridge  materials  on  the  books;  the  rail  contract  she  had  just  taken 
was  a  big  thing,  very  big!  "  We've  never  handled  such  an  order, 
but  we  can  do  it!  " 

They  were  walking  rapidly  from  the  foundry  to  the  furnaces; 
Sarah  Maitland  was  inspecting  piles  of  pig,  talking  to  puddlers,  all 
the  while  bending  and  twisting  between  her  strong  fingers,  with  their 
blackened  nails,  a  curl  of  borings,  perhaps  biting  on  it,  thoughtfully, 
while  she  considered  some  piece  of  work,  then  blowing  the  crumbs 
of  iron  out  from  between  her  lips  and  bursting  into  quick  directions 
or  fault-finding.  She  stood  among  her  men,  in  her  short  skirt,  her 
gray  hair  straggling  out  over  her  forehead  from  under  her  shabby 
bonnet,  and  gave  her  orders;  but  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
was  self-conscious — Blair  was  looking  on!  listening!  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  one  of  these  days  he  would  be  doing  just  what  she 
was  doing! 

When  they  got  back  to  the  office  again  she  was  very  brief  and 
business-like  with  him.  She  had  had  a  fine  morning,  but  she  couldn't 
waste  any  more  time!  "  You  can  keep  all  this  that  you  have  seen 
in  your  mind.  I  don't  know  just  where  I  shall  put  you.  If  you  have 
a  preference,  express  it."  Then  she  told  him  what  his  salary  would 
be  when  he  got  to  work,  and  what  allowance  he  was  to  have  for 
the  present. 

"  Now,  clear  out,  clear  out!  "  she  said;  "  good-by  ";  and  turned 
her  cheek  toward  him  for  their  semi-annual  parting.  Blair,  with  his 
eyes  shut,  kissed  her. 

"  Good-by,  mother.  It  has  been  awfully  interesting.  And  I  am 
awfully  obliged  to  you  about  the  allowance."  On  the  threshold  of 
the  office  he  halted.  "  Mother,"  he  said — and  his  voice  was  gener- 
ous even  to  wistfulness — "Mother,  that  cradle  thing  was  stunning." 


CIGAR-MAKING 
BY  HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON 

THE  car  came  to  a  standstill. 

"  There  it  is.  ...  Confess,  Hugo,  you're  surprised,  that  it's 
so  small!  " 

But  Hugo  helped  no  new-thoughter  to  belittle  honest  business. 

"  Unlike  some  I  could  mention,  I've  seen  factories  before," 
quoth  he.  "I've  seen  a  million-dollar  business  done  in  a  smaller 
plant  than  that." 

Actually  Cally  found  the  Works  bigger  than  she  had  expected; 
reaction  from  the  childish  marble  palace  idea  had  swung  her  mind's 
eye  too  far.  But  gazing  at  the  weatherworn  old  pile,  spilling  dirtily 
over  the  broken  sidewalk,  she  was  once  more  struck  and  depressed 
by  something  almost  sinister  about  it,  something  vaguely  foreboding. 
To  her  imagination  it  was  a  little  as  if  the  ramshackle  old  pile  leered 
at  her:  "  Wash  your  hands  of  me  if  you  will,  young  lady.  I  mean 
you  harm  some  day.  .  .  ." 

But  then,  of  course,  she  wasn't  washing  her  hands  of  it ;  her  hands 
had  never  been  in  it  at  all. 

"  You'll  get  intensely  interested  and  want  to  stay  hours!  "  said 
she,  with  the  loud  roar  of  traffic  in  her  ears.  "  Remember  I  only 
came  for  a  peep— just  to  see  what  a  Works  is  like  inside." 

Hugo,  guiding  her  over  the  littered  sidewalk  to  the  shabby  little 
door  marked  "  Office,"  swore  that  she  could  not  make  her  peep  too 
brief  for  him. 

She  had  considered  the  possibility  of  encountering  her  father 
here;  had  seen  the  difficulties  of  attributing  this  foray  to  Hugo's 
insatiable  interest  in  commerce,  with  Hugo  standing  right  there. 
However,  in  the  very  unpretentious  offices  inside — desolate  places 
of  common  wood  partitions,  bare  floors,  and  strange,  tall  stools  and 
desks — she  was  assurred  by  an  anaemic  youth  with  a  red  Adam's 
apple  that  her  father  had  left  for  the  bank  an  hour  earlier,  which 
was  according  to  his  usual  habit.  She  inquired  for  Chas  Cooney, 
who  kept  books  from  one  of  those  lofty  stools,  but  Chas  was  reported 
sick  in  bed.  Accordingly  the  visitors  fell  into  the  hands  of  Mr. 

199 


200  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

MacQueen,  whom  Carlisle,  in  the  years,  had  seen  occasionally  enter- 
ing or  leaving  papa's  study  o'  nights. 

MacQueen  was  black,  bullet-headed,  and  dour.  He  had  held 
socialistic  views  in  his  fiery  youth,  but  had  changed  his  mind  like 
the  rest  of  us  when  he  found  himself  rising  in  the  world.  In  these 
days  he  received  a  percentage  of  the  Works'  profits,  and  cursed 
the  impudence  of  Labor.  As  to  visitors,  his  politics  were  that  all 
such  had  better  be  at  their  several  homes,  and  he  indicated  these 
opinions,  with  no  particular  subtlety,  to  Miss  Heth  and  Mr.  Can- 
ning. He  even  cited  them  a  special  reason  against  visiting  to-day: 
new  machines  being  installed,  and  the  shop  upset  in  consequence. 
However,  he  did  not  feel  free  to  refuse  the  request  outright,  and 
when  Canning  grew  a  little  sharp — for  he  did  the  talking,  generously 
enough — the  sour  vizier  yielded,  though  with  no  affectation  of  a 
good  grace. 

"  Well,  as  ye  like  then.    .    .    .    This  way." 

And  he  opened  a  door  with  a  briskness  which  indicated  that 
Carlisle's  expressed  wish  "  just  to  look  around "  should  be  car- 
ried out  in  the  most  literal  manner. 

The  opening  of  this  door  brought  a  surprise.  Things  were  so 
unceremonious  in  the  business  district,  it  seemed,  that  you  stepped 
from  the  superintendent's  office  right  into  the  middle  of  everything, 
so  to  speak.  You  were  inspecting  your  father's  business  a  minute 
before  you  knew  it.  ... 

Cally,  of  course,  had  had  not  the  faintest  idea  what  to  expect 
at  the  Works.  She  had  prepared  herself  to  view  horrors  with 
calm  and  detachment,  if  such  proved  to  be  the  iron  law  of  busi- 
ness. But,  gazing  confusedly  at  the  dim,  novel  spectacle  that  so 
suddenly  confronted  her,  she  saw  nothing  of  the  kind.  Her  heart, 
which  had  been  beating  a  little  faster  than  usual,  rose  at  once. 

Technically  speaking,  which  was  the  way  Mr.  MacQueen  spoke, 
this  was  the  receiving-  and  stemming-room.  It  was  as  big  as  a  barn, 
the  full  size  of  the  building,  except  for  the  end  cut  off  to  make  the 
offices.  Negroes  worked  here ;  negro  men,  mostly  wearing  red  under- 
shirts. They  sat  in  long  rows,  with  quick  fingers  stripping  the  stems 
from  the  not  unfragrant  leaves.  These  were  stemmers,  it  was  learned. 
Piles  of  the  brown  tobacco  stood  beside  each  stemmer,  bales  of  it 
were  stacked,  ceiling-high,  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  awaiting 
their  attentions.  The  negroes  eyed  the  visitors  respectfully.  They 


CIGAR-MAKING  201 

were  heard  to  laugh  and  joke  over  their  labors.  If  they  knew  of  any- 
thing homicidal  in  their  lot,  certainly  they  bore  it  with  a  fine 
humorous  courage. 

Down  the  aisle  between  the  black  rows,  Cally  picked  her  way 
after  Hugo  and  Mr.  MacQueen.  Considering  that  all  this  was 
her  father's,  she  felt  abashingly  out  of  place,  most  intrusive;  when 
she  caught  a  dusky  face  turned  upon  her  she  hastily  looked  another 
way.  Still,  she  felt  within  her  an  increasing  sense  of  cheerfulness. 
Washington  Street  sensibilities  were  offended,  naturally.  The  busy 
colored  stemmers  were  scarcely  inviting  to  the  eye;  the  odor  of  the 
tobacco  soon  grew  a  little  overpowering;  there  were  dirt  and  dust  and 
an  excess  of  steam-heat — "  Tobacco  likes  to  be  warm,"  said  Mac- 
Queen.  And  yet  the  dainty  visitor's  chief  impression,  somehow,  was 
of  system  and  usefulness  and  order,  of  efficient  and  on  the  whole 
well-managed  enterprise. 

"  If  there's  anything  the  matter  here,"  thought  she,  "  men  will 
have  to  quarrel  and  decide  about  it.  ...  Just  as  I  said." 

The  inspecting  party  went  upward,  and  these  heartening  im- 
pressions were  strengthened.  On  the  second  floor  was  another 
stemming-room,  long  and  hot  like  the  other;  only  here  the  stem- 
ming was  done  by  machines — "  for  the  fancy  goods " — and  the 
machines  were  operated  by  negro  women.  They  were  middle-aged 
women,  many  of  them,  industrious  and  quite  placid-looking.  Per- 
haps a  quarter  of  the  whole  length  of  the  room  was  prosaically  filled 
with  piled  tobacco  stored  ready  for  the  two  floors  of  stemmers.  The 
inspection  here  was  brief,  and  to  tell  the  truth,  rather  tame,  like  an 
anti-climax.  Not  a  trace  or  a  vestige  of  homicide  was  descried, 
not  a  blood-spot  high  or  low.  .  .  . 

Cally  had  been  observing  Hugo,  who  looked  so  resplendent 
against  this  workaday  background,  and  felt  herself  at  a  disadvan- 
tage with  him.  He  had  not  wanted  to  come  at  all,  but  now  that 
they  were  here,  he  exhibited  a  far  more  intelligent  interest  in  what 
he  saw  than  she  did  or  could.  Oddly  enough,  he  appeared  to  know 
a  good  deal  about  the  making  of  cigars,  and  his  pointed  comments 
gradually  elicited  a  new  tone  from  MacQueen,  who  was  by  now 
talking  to  him  almost  as  to  an  equal.  Several  times  Cally  detected 
his  eyes  upon  her,  not  bored  but  openly  quizzical. 

"  Learning  exactly  how  a  cheroot  factory  ought  to  be  run?  "  he 
asked,  sotto  voce,  as  they  left  the  second  floor. 


202  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Oh,  exactly  .  .  .  For  one  thing,  I'd  recommend  a  ventilator 
or  two,  shouldn't  you?  " 

She  felt  just  a  little  foolish.  She  also  felt  out  of  her  element, 
incidental,  irresponsible,  and  genuinely  relieved.  Still,  through 
this  jumble  of  feelings  she  had  not  forgotten  that  they  were  yet  to 
see  that  part  of  the  Works  which  she  hao\  specially  come  to 
peep  at.  ... 

Progress  upward  was  by  means  of  a  most  primitive  elevator, 
nothing  but  an  open  platform  of  bare  boards,  which  Mr.  Mac- 
Queen  worked  with  one  hand,  and  which  interestingly  pushed  up 
the  floor  above  as  one  ascended.  As  they  rose  by  this  quaint  device, 
Carlisle  said: 

"  Is  this  next  the  bunching-room,  Mr.  MacQueen?  " 

"  It  is,  Miss." 

"  Bunching-room!  "  echoed  Hugo,  with  satiric  admiration.  "You 
are  an  expert.  .  .  ." 

The  lift-shaft  ran  in  one  corner  of  the  long  building.  Debark- 
ing on  the  third  floor,  the  visitors  had  to  step  around  a  tall,  shin- 
ing machine,  not  to  mention  two  workmen  who  had  evidently 
just  landed  it.  Several  other  machines  stood  loosely  grouped  here, 
all  obviously  new  and  not  yet  in  place. 

Hugo,  pointing  with  his  stick,  observed:  "  Clearing  in  new 
floor-space,  I  see." 

MacQueen  nodded.  "  Knocked  out  a  cloak-room.  Our  fight 
here's  for  space.  Profits  get  smaller  all  the  time.  .  .  ." 

"  H'm.  .  .  .  You  figured  the  strain,  I  suppose.  Your  floor 
looks  weak." 

"  Oh,  it'll  stand  it,"  said  the  man,  shortly.    "  This  way." 

Carlisle  wondered  if  the  weak  floor  was  what  her  friend  Vivian 
had  meant  when  he  said,  in  his  extreme  way,  that  the  Works  might 
fall  down  some  day.  She  recalled  that  she  had  thought  the  building 
looked  rather  rickety,  that  day  last  year.  But  these  thoughts  hardly 
entered  her  mind  before  the  sight  of  her  eyes  knocked  them  out. 
The  visitors  squeezed  around  the  new  machines,  and,  doing  so, 
stepped  full  into  the  bunching-room.  And  the  girl  saw  in  one  glance 
that  this  was  the  strangest,  most  interesting  room  she  had  ever  seen. 

Her  first  confused  sense  was  only  of  an  astonishing  mass  of  dirty 
white  womanhood.  The  thick  hot  room  seemed  swarming  with 
women,  alive  and  teeming  with  women,  women  tumbling  all  over 


CIGAR-MAKING  203 

each  other  wherever  the  eye  turned.  Tall  clacking  machines  ran 
closely  around  the  walls  of  the  room,  down  the  middle  stood  a 
double  row  of  tables;  and  at  each  machine,  and  at  every  possible 
place  at  the  tables,  sat  a  woman  crowded  upon  a  woman,  and  an- 
other and  another. 

Dirt,  noise,  heat,  and  smell:  women,  women,  women.  Conglom- 
eration of  human  and  inhuman  such  as  the  eyes  of  the  refined 
seldom  look  upon.  .  .  .  Was  this,  indeed,  the  pleasantest  place 
to  work  in  town?  .  .  . 

"  Bunchin'  and  wrappin',"  said  MacQueen.  "  Filler's  fed  in 
from  that  basin  on  top.  She  slips  in  the  binder — machine  rolls  'em 
together.  ...  Ye  can  see  here." 

They  halted  by  one  of  the  bunching-machines,  and  saw  the 
parts  dexterously  brought  together  into  the  crude  semblance  of 
the  product,  saw  the  embryo  cigars  thrust  into  wooden  forms  which 
would  shape  them  yet  further  for  their  uses  in  a  world  asmoke.  .  .  . 

"Jove!  Watch  how  her  hands  fly!  "  said  Hugo,  with  manlike 
interest  for  processes,  things  done.  "  Look,  Carlisle." 

Carlisle  looked  dutifully.  It  was  in  the  order  of  things  that  she 
should  bring  Hugo  to  the  Works,  and  that,  being  here,  he  should 
take  charge  of  her.  But,  unconsciously,  she  soon  turned  her  back 
to  the  busy  machine,  impelled  by  the  mounting  interest  she  felt  to 
see  bunching,  not  in'  detail,  but  in  the  large. 

Downstairs  the  workers  had  been  negroes;  here  they  were  white 
women,  a  different  matter.  But  Cally  had  a  closer  association  than 
that,  in  the  girl  she  had  just  been  talking  to,  Corinne,  who  had 
worked  three  years  in  this  room.  It  wasn't  so  easy  to  preserve  the 
valuable  detached  point  of  view,  when  you  actually  knew  one  of 
the  people.  .  .  . 

"  Three  cents  a  hundred,"  said  MacQueen's  rugged  voice. 

There  was  a  fine  brown  dust  in  the  air  of  the  teeming  room,  and 
the  sickening  smell  of  new  tobacco.  Not  a  window  in  the  place 
was  open,  and  the  strong  steam  heat  seemed  almost  overwhelming. 
The  women  had  now  been  at  it  for  near  nine  hours.  Damp,  streaked 
faces,  for  the  most  part  pale  and  somewhat  heavy,  turned  incessantly 
toward  the  large  wall-clock  at  one  end  of  the  room.  Eyes  looked 
sidewise  upon  the  elegant  visitors,  but  then  the  flying  fingers  were  off 
again,  for  time  is  strictly  money  with  piecework.  .  .  .  How  could 
they  stand  being  so  crowded,  and  couldn't  they  have  any  air? 


204  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Oh,  five  thousand  a  day— plenty  of  them." 
"  Five  thousand! — how  do  they  do  it?  " 

"  We  had  a  girl  do  sixty-five  hundred.  She's  quit.  .  .  .  Here's 
one  down  here  ain't  bad." 

The  trio  moved  down  the  line  of  machines,  past  soiled,  busy 
backs.  Close  on  their  left  was  the  double  row  of  tables,  where  the 
hurrying  "  wrappers  "  sat  like  sardines.  Cally  now  saw  that  these 
were  not  women  at  all,  but  young  girls,  like  Corinne;  girls  mostly 
younger  than  she  herself,  some  very  much  younger.  Only  they 
seemed  to  be  girls  with  a  difference,  girls  who  had  somehow  lost 
their  girlhood.  The  rather  nauseating  atmosphere  which  enveloped 
them,  the  way  they  were  huddled  together  yet  never  ceased  to  drive 
on  their  tasks,  the  slatternly  uncorseted  figures,  stolid  faces  and 
furtive  glances;  by  something  indefinable  in  their  situation,  these 
girls  seemed  to  have  been  degraded  and  dehumanized,  to  have  lost 
something  more  precious  than  virtue. 

Yet  some  of  them  were  quite  pretty,  beneath  dust  and  fatigue; 
one,  with  a  quantity  of  crinkly  auburn  hair,  was  very  pretty,  indeed. 
The  girl  Corinne,  after  three  years  here,  was  both  pretty  and  pos- 
sessed of  a  certain  delicacy;  a  delicacy  which  forbade  her  to  tell 
Mr.  Heth's  daughter  what  she  really  thought  about  the  Works. 
For  that  must  have  been  it.  ... 

"  This  'un  can  keep  three  wrappers  pretty  busy  when  she's 
feelin'  good.  Can't  yer,  Miller?  .  .  .  Ye'll  see  the  wrappers 
there,  in  a  minute." 

This  'un,  or  Miller,  was  a  tall,  gaunt,  sallow  girl,  who  handled 
her  machine  with  the  touch  of  a  master,  eliminating  every  super- 
fluous move  and  filling  a  form  of  a  dozen  rough  cheroots  quickly 
enough  to  take  a  visitor's  breath  away.  No  doubt  it  was  very  in- 
structive to  see  how  fast  cheroots  could  be  made.  However,  the 
stirring  interest  of  the  daughter  of  the  Works  was  not  for  me- 
chanical skill. 

Cally  stood  with  a  daintily  scented  handkerchief  at  her  nos- 
trils, painfully  drinking  in  the  origins  of  the  Heth  fortune.  The 
safeguarding  sense  of  irresponsibility  ebbed,  do  what  she  might. 
Well  she  knew  that  this  place  could  not  be  so  bad  as  it  seemed  to 
her;  for  then  her  father  would  not  have  let  it  be  so.  For  her  to 
seem  to  disapprove  of  papa's  business  methods  was  mere  silly  im- 
pertinence, on  top  of  the  disloyalty  of  it.  But  none  of  the  sane  pre- 


CIGAR-MAKING  205 

cepts  she  had  had  two  weeks  to  think  out  seemed  to  make  any 
answer  to  the  disturbing  sensations  she  felt  rising,  like  a  sickness, 
within  her.  .  .  . 

Her  sense  was  of  something  polluting  at  the  spring  of  her  life. 
Here  was  the  soil  that  she  was  rooted  in,  and  the  soil  was  not  clean. 
It  might  be  business,  it  might  be  right ;  but  no  argument  could  make 
it  agreeable  to  feel  that  the  money  she  wore  upon  her  back  at  this 
moment  was  made  in  this  malodorous  place,  by  these  thickly  crowded 
girls.  .  .  .  Was  it  in  such  thoughts  that  grew  this  sense  of  some 
personal  relation  of  herself  with  her  father's  most  unpleasant  bunch- 
ing-room?  Was  it  for  such  reasons  that  V.  Vivian  had  asked  her 
that  day  at  the  Settlement  why  didfl^t  she  go  to  the  Works 
some  day?  .  .  . 

She  heard  Hugo's  voice,  with  a  note  of  admiration  for  visible  effi- 
ciency: "  How  do  they  keep  it  up  at  this  clip  nine  hours?  " 

"  Got  to  do  it,  or  others  will." 

"  You  expect  each  machine  to  produce  so  much,  I  suppose?  " 

And  Cally,  so  close  to  her  lordly  lover  that  her  arm  brushed 
his,  was  seeing  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  what  people  meant 
when  they  threw  bricks  at  papa  on  election  night,  or  felt  the  strong 
necessity  of  attacking  him  in  the  papers.  By  processes  that  were 
less  mental  than  emotional,  even  physical,  she  was  driven  further 
down  a  well-trod  path  and  stood  dimly  confronting  the  outlines  of  a 
vast  interrogation.  .  .  .  What  particular  human  worth  had  she, 
Cally  Heth,  that  the  womanhood  of  these  lower-class  sisters  should 
be  sapped  that  she  might  wear  silk  next  her  skin,  and  be  bred  to 
appeal  to  the  highly  cultivated  tastes  of  a  Canning?  .  .  . 

If  there  are  experiences  which  permanently  extend  the  frontiers 
of  thought,  it  was  not  in  this  girPs  power  to  recognize  one  of  them 
closing  down  on  her  now.  But  she  did  perceive,  by  the  growing  com- 
motion within,  that  she  had  made  a  great  mistake  to  come  to 
this  place.  .  .  . 

"Now,  here's  wrapping,"  said  MacQueen.  "Hand  work, 
you  see." 

But  his  employer's  daughter,  it  appeared,  had  seen  enough  of 
cigar-making  for  one  day.  At  that  moment  she  touched  Canning's 
well-tailored  arm. 

"Let's  go.    .    .    .    It's— stifling  here." 

Hugo,  just  turning  from  the  bunching-machine,  regarded  her 


206  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

faintly  horrified  face  with  some  amusement.  And  Carlisle  saw  that 
he  was  amused. 

"  I  was  wondering,"  said  he,  "  how  long  your  sociology  would 
survive  this  air.  .  .  ." 

The  peep  was  meant  to  end  there,  and  should  have  done  so. 
But  unluckily,  at  just  that  juncture,  there  came  a  small  diver- 
sion. The  gaunt  girl  Miller,  by  whose  machine  the  little  party 
stood,  took  it  into  her  head  to  keep  at  it  no  longer. 

Though  nobody  had  noticed  it,  this  girl  had  been  in  trouble 
for  the  last  five  minutes.  The  presence  of  the  visitors,  or  of  the 
superintenedent,  had  evidently  made  her  nervous;  she  kept  look- 
ing half-around  out  of  the  darting  corners  of  her  eyes.  Three 
times,  as  the  men  watched  and  talked  about  her,  she  had  raised  a 
hand  in  the  heat  and  brushed  it  hurriedly  before  her  eyes.  And 
then,  just  as  the  superintendent  turned  from  her  and  all  would 
have  been  well  again,  her  overdrawn  nerve  gave  out.  The  hands 
became  suddenly  limp  on  the  machine  they  knew  so  well;  they 
slid  backward,  at  first  slowly  and  then  with  the  speed  of  a  fall- 
ing body;  and  poor  Miller  slipped  quietly  from  her  stool  to  the 
floor,  her  head  actually  brushing  the  lady's  skirt  as  she  fell. 

Cally  stifled  a  little  cry.  Hugo,  obvious  for  once,  said,  "  Why, 
she's  fainted!  " — in  an  incredulous  voice.  Considerably  better  in 
action  were  the  experienced  Works  people.  MacQueen  sprang  for  a 
water-bucket  with  a  celerity  which  strongly  suggested  practice.  A 
stout,  unstayed  buncher  filled  a  long-felt  want  by  flinging  open  a 
window.  One  from  a  neighboring  machine  sat  on  the  floor,  Miller's 
head  on  her  lap.  Two  others  stood  by.  ... 

Carlisle,  holding  to  the  silenced  machine  with  a  small  gloved 
hand,  gazed  down  as  at  a  bit  of  stage-play. 

They  had  formed  a  screen  about  the  fallen  girl,  under  Mac- 
Queen's  directions,  to  cut  her  off  from  the  general  view.  The 
superintendent's  gaze  swept  critically  about.  However,  the  sud- 
den confusion  had  drawn  the  attention  of  all  that  part  of  the  room, 
and  concealment  proved  a  too  optimistic  'hope.  The  moment  hap- 
pened to  be  ripe  for  one  of  those  curious  panics  of  the  imagination 
to  which  crowded  womanhood  is  psychologically  subject.  Knowl- 
edge that  somebody  was  down  ran  round  the  room  as  if  it  had  been 
shouted;  and  on  the  knowledge,  fear  stalked  among  the  tired  girls, 
and  the  thing  itself  was  born  of  the  dread  of  it. 


CIGAR-MAKING  207 

So  it  was  that  Carlisle,  gripping  fast  to  poor  Miller's  machine, 
heard  an  odd  noise  behind  her,  and  turned  with  a  sickening  drop- 
ping of  the  heart.  Five  yards  away  a  girl  gave  a  little  moan  and 
flopped  forward  upon  her  machine.  She  was  a  fine,  strapping  young 
creature,  and  it  is  certain  that  two  minutes  before  nothing  had 
been  further  from  her  mind  than  fainting.  It  did  not  stop  there. 
Far  up  the  room  a  "  wrapper  "  rose  in  the  dense  air,  took  her  head 
in  both  hands  and  fell  backward  into  the  arms  of  the  operative 
next  her.  In  the  extreme  corner  of  the  great  room  a  little  stir  indi- 
cated that  another  had  gone  down  there.  Work  had  almost  ceased. 
Many  eyes  stared  with  sudden  nervous  apprehension  into  other  eyes, 
as  if  to  say:  "  Am  I  to  be  the  next?  .  .  " 

MacQueen's  voice  rang  out — a  fine  voice  it  was,  the  kind  that 
makes  people  sit  down  again  in  a  fire-scared  theatre: 

"  Take  your  seats,  every  one  of  you.  .  .  .  Nothing's  going  to 
happen.  You're  all  right,  I  say.  Go  on  with  your  work.  Sit  down. 
Get  to  work.  .  .  ." 

"  Air,"  said  Cally  Heth,  in  a  small  colorless  voice. 

Hugo  wheeled  sharply. 

"  Great  heavens!—  Carlisle!    .    .    .    Do  you  feel  faint?  " 

He  had  her  at  the  open  window  in  a  trice,  clasping  her  arm 
tight,  speaking  masculine  encouragement.  ..."  Hold  hard,  my 
dear!  ...  I  should  have  watched  you.  .  .  .  Now,  breathe 
this.  .  .  .  Gulp  it  in,  Cally.  .  .  ." 

His  beloved,  indeed,  like  the  work-sisters,  had  felt  the  brush  of 
the  black  wing.  For  an  instant  nothing  had  seemed  surer  than 
that  the  daughter  of  the  Works  would  be  the  fifth  girl  to  faint  in 
the  bunching-room  that  day;  she  had  seen  the  floor  rise  under  her 
whirling  vision.  .  .  . 

But  once  at  the  window  the  dark  minute  passed  speedily.  The 
keen  October  air  bore  the  gift  of  life.  Blood  trickled  back  into 
the  dead  white  cheeks. 

"I  ...  was  just  a  little  dizzy,"  said  Cally,  quite  apologetically. 

And,  though  the  visitors  departed  then,  almost  immediately,  all 
signs  of  the  sudden  little  panic  in  the  bunching-room  were  already 
rapidly  disappearing.  Work  proceeded.  The  gaunt  girl  Miller,  who 
had  earned  MacQueen's  permanent  dislike  by  starting  all  the  trouble, 
was  observed  sitting  again  at  her  machine,  hands  and  feet  reaching 
out  for  the  accustomed  levers. 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 


DARIUS  CLAYHANGER'S  printing-office  was  a  fine  example  of  the 
policy  of  makeshift  which  governed  and  still  governs  the  commercial 
activity  of  the  Five  Towns.  It  consisted  of  the  first  floor  of  a  nonde- 
script building  which  stood  at  the  bottom  of  the  irregularly  shaped 
yard  behind  the  house  and  shop,  and  which  formed  the  southern 
boundary  of  the  Clayhanger  premises.  The  antique  building  had 
once  been  part  of  an  old-fashioned  pot-works,  but  that  must  have 
been  in  the  eighteenth  century.  Kilns  and  chimneys  of  all  ages,  sizes 
and  tints  rose  behind  it  to  prove  that  this  part  of  the  town  was  one 
of  the  old  manufacturing  quarters.  The  ground  floor  of  the  build- 
ing, entirely  inaccessible  from  Clayhanger's  yard,  had  a  separate 
entrance  of  its  own  in  an  alley,  that  branched  off  from  Woodisun 
Bank,  ran  parallel  to  Wedgwood  Street  and  stopped  abruptly  at  the 
back  gate  of  a  saddler's  workshop.  In  the  narrow  entry  you  were 
like  a  creeping  animal  amid  the  undergrowth  of  a  forest  of  chimneys, 
ovens  and  high  blank  walls.  This  ground  floor  had  been  a  stable 
for  many  years;  it  was  now,  however,  a  baker's  store-room.  Once 
there  had  been  an  interior  staircase  leading  from  the  ground  floor 
to  the  first  floor,  but  it  had  been  suppressed  in  order  to  save  floor 
space,  and  an  exterior  staircase  constructed  with  its  foot  in  Clay- 
hanger's  yard.  To  meet  the  requirement  of  the  staircase  one  of  the 
first-floor  windows  had  been  transformed  into  a  door.  Further,  as 
the  staircase  came  against  one  of  the  ground-floor  windows,  and  as 
Clayhanger's  predecessor  had  objected  to  those  alien  windows  over- 
looking his  yard,  and  as  numerous  windows  were  anyhow  unneces- 
sary to  a  stable,  all  the  ground-floor  windows  had  been  closed  up, 
with  oddments  of  brick  and  tile,  giving  to  the  wall  a  very  variegated 
and  chequered  appearance.  Thus  the  ground  floor  and  the  first 
floor  were  absolutely  divorced,  the  former  having  its  entrance  and 
light  from  the  public  alley,  the  latter  from  the  private  yard. 

From  Clayhanger,  by  Arnold  Bennett.     Copyright,   1910,  George  H. 
Doran,  Publisher. 
208 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE  209 

The  first  floor  had  been  a  printing-office  for  over  seventy  years. 
All  the  machinery  in  it  had  had  to  be  manoeuvered  up  the  rickety 
stairs  or  put  through  one  of  the  windows  on  either  side  of  the  window 
that  had  been  turned  into  a  door.  When  Darius  Clayhanger,  in  his 
audacity,  decided  to  print  by  steam,  many  people  imagined  that  he 
would  at  last  be  compelled  to  rent  the  ground  floor  or  to  take  other 
premises.  But  no!  The  elasticity  of  the  makeshift  policy  was  not 
yet  fully  stretched.  Darius,  in  consultation  with  a  jobbing  builder, 
came  happily  to  the  conclusion  that  he  could  "  manage,"  that  he 
could  "  make  things  do,"  by  adding  to  the  top  of  his  stairs  a  little 
landing  for  an  engine-shed.  This  was  done,  and  the  engine  and 
boiler  perched  in  the  air;  the  shaft  of  the  engine  went  through  the 
wall;  the  chimney-pipe  of  the  boiler  ran  up  straight  to  the  level  of 
the  roof-ridge  and  was  stayed  with  pieces  of  wire.  A  new  chimney 
had  also  been  pierced  in  the  middle  of  the  roof,  for  the  uses  of  a 
heating  stove.  The  original  chimneys  had  been  allowed  to  fall  into 
decay.  Finally,  a  new  large  skylight  added  interest  to  the  roof.  In 
a  general  way,  the  building  resembled  a  suit  of  clothes  that  had  been 
worn  during  four  of  the  seven  ages  of  man  by  an  untidy  husband 
with  a  tidy  and  economical  wife,  and  then  given  by  the  wife  to  a 
poor  relation  of  a  somewhat  different  figure,  to  finish.  All  that  could 
be  said  of  it  was  that  it  survived  and  served. 

But  these  considerations  occurred  to  nobody. 

IT 

Edwin  Clayhanger  left  the  shop  without  due  excuse  and  passed 
down  the  long  blue-paved  yard  towards  the  printing-office.  He 
imagined  that  he  was  being  drawn  thither  simply  by  his  own  curiosity 
— a  curiosity,  however,  which  he  considered  to  be  justifiable,  and  even 
laudable.  The  yard  showed  signs  that  the  unusual  had  lately  been 
happening  there.  Its  brick  pavement,  in  the  narrow  branch  of  it 
that  led  to  the  double  gates  in  Woodisun  Bank  (those  gates  which 
said  to  the  casual  visitor,  "  No  admittance  except  on  Business  ") , 
was  muddy,  littered  and  damaged,  as  though  a  Juggernaut  had  passed 
that  way.  Ladders  reclined  against  the  walls.  Moreover,  one  of  the 
windows  of  trie  office  had  been  taken  out  of  its  frame,  leaving  naught 
but  an  oblong  aperture.  Through  this  aperture  Edwin  could  see  the 
busy  eager  forms  of  his  father,  Big  James,  and  Chawner.  Through 
this  aperture  had  been  lifted,  in  parts  and  by  the  employment  of 
14 


210  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

every  possible  combination  of  lever  and  pulley,  the  printing  machine 
which  Darius  Clayhanger  had  so  successfully  purchased  in  Man- 
chester on  the  day  of  the  Free-and-Easy  at  the  Dragon. 

At  the  top  of  the  flight  of  steps  two  apprentices,  one  nearly  "  out 
of  his  time,"  were  ministering  to  the  engine,  which  that  morning  did 
not  happen  to  be  running.  The  engine,  giving  glory  to  the  entire 
establishment  by  virtue  of  the  imposing  word  "  steam,"  was  a 
crotchety  and  capricious  thing,  constant  only  in  its  tendency  to 
break  down.  No  more  reliance  could  be  placed  on  it  than  on  a  pan> 
pered  donkey.  Sometimes  it  would  run,  and  sometimes  it  would 
not  run,  but  nobody  could  safely  prophesy  its  moods.  Of  the  sev- 
eral machines  it  drove  but  one,  the  grand  cylinder,  the  last  triumph 
of  the  ingenuity  of  man,  and  even  that  had  to  be  started  by  hand 
before  the  engine  would  consent  to  work  it.  The  staff  hated  the 
engine,  except  during  those  rare  hours  when  one  of  its  willing  moods 
coincided  with  a  pressure  of  business.  Then,  when  the  steam  was 
sputtering  and  the  smoke  smoking  and  the  piston  throbbing,  and  the 
leathern  belt  traveling  round  and  round  and  the  complete  building 
a-tremble  and  a-clatter  and  an  attendant  with  clean  hands  was  feed- 
ing the  sheets  at  one  end  of  the  machine  and  another  attendant  with 
clean  hands  taking  them  off  at  the  other,  all  at  the  rate  of  twenty 
copies  per  sixty  seconds — then  the  staff  loved  the  engine  and  meditated 
upon  the  wonders  of  their  modern  civilization.  The  engine  had  been 
known  to  do  its  five  thousand  in  an  afternoon,  and  its  horse-power 
was  only  one. 

ni 

Edwin  could  not  keep  out  of  the  printing-office.  He  went  incon- 
spicuously and  as  it  were  by  accident  up  the  stone  steps  and  disap- 
peared into  the  interior.  When  you  entered  the  office  you  were 
first  of  all  impressed  by  the  multiplicity  of  odors  competing  for  your 
attention,  the  chief  among  them  being  those  of  ink,  oil,  and  paraffin. 
Despite  the  fact  that  the  door  was  open  and  one  window  gone,  the 
smell  and  heat  in  the  office  on  that  warm  morning  were  notable.  Old 
sheets  of  the  "  Manchester  Examiner  "  had  been  pinned  over  the 
skylight  to  keep  out  the  sun,  but  as  these  were  torn  and  rent  the 
sun  was  not  kept  out.  Nobody,  however,  seemed  to  suffer  incon- 
venience. After  the  odors,  the  remarkable  feature  of  the  place  was 
the  quantity  of  machinery  on  its  uneven  floor.  Timid  employes  had 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE  211 

occasionally  suggested  to  Darius  that  the  floor  might  yield  one  day 
and  add  themselves  and  all  the  machinery  to  the  baker's  stores 
below;  but  Darius  knew  that  floors  never  did  yield. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  was  a  huge  and  heavy  heating  stove, 
whose  pipe  ran  straight  upwards  to  the  visible  roof.  The  mighty 
cylinder  machine  stood  to  the  left  hand.  Behind  was  a  small  rough- 
and-ready  binding  department  with  a  guillotine  cutting  machine; 
a  cardboard  cutting  machine,  and  a  perforating  machine;  trifles  by 
the  side  of  the  cylinder,  but  still  each  of  them  formidable  masses  of 
metal  heavy  enough  to  crush  a  horse;  the  cutting  machines  might 
have  served  to  illustrate  the  French  Revolution,  and  the  perforating 
machine  the  Holy  Inquisition. 

Then  there  was  what  was  called  in  the  office  the  "  old  machine," 
a  relic  of  Clayhanger's  predecessor,  and  at  least  eighty  years  old. 
It  was  one  of  those  machines  whose  worn  physiognomies  full  of 
character  show  at  once  that  they  have  a  history.  In  construction  it 
carried  solidity  to  an  absurd  degree.  Its  pillars  were  like  the  piles  of 
a  pier.  Once,  in  a  historic  rat-catching,  a  rat  had  got  up  one  of 
them,  and  a  piece  of  smouldering  brown  paper  had  done  what  a  terrier 
could  not  do.  The  machine  at  one  period  of  its  career  had  been 
enlarged,  and  the  neat  seaming  of  the  metal  was  an  ecstasy  to  the 
eye  of  a  good  workman.  Long  ago,  it  was  known,  this  machine  had 
printed  a  Reform  newspaper  at  Stockport.  Now,  after  thus  par- 
ticipating in  the  violent  politics  of  an  age  heroic  and  unhappy,  it 
had  been  put  to  printing  small  posters  of  auctions  and  tea-meetings. 
Its  movement  was  double,  first  that  of  a  handle  to  bring  the  bed 
under  the  platen,  and  second  a  lever  pulled  over  to  make  contact 
between  the  type  and  the  paper.  It  still  worked  perfectly.  It  was  so 
solid,  and  it  had  been  so  honestly  made,  that  it  could  never  get  out 
of  order  nor  wear  away.  And  indeed  the  conscientiousness  and  skill 
of  artificers  in  the  eighteenth  century  are  still,  through  that  resistless 
machine,  producing  their  effect  in  the  twentieth.  But  it  needed  a 
strong  hand  to  bestir  its  smooth  plum-colored  limbs  of  metal,  and  a 
speed  of  a  hundred  an  hour  meant  gentle  perspiration.  The  machine 
was  loved  like  an  animal. 

Near  this  honorable  and  lumbering  survival  stood  pertly  an  Empire 
treadle-machine  for  printing  envelopes  and  similar  trifles.  It  was  new 
and  full  of  natty  little  devices.  It  worked  with  the  lightness  of 


212  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

something  insubstantial.  A  child  could  actuate  it,  and  it  would  print 
delicately  a  thousand  envelopes  an  hour.  This  machine,  with  the 
latest  purchase,  which  was  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  near 
the  large  double-pointed  case-rack,  completed  the  tale  of  machines. 
That  case-rack  alone  held  fifty  different  fonts  of  type,  and  there  were 
other  case-racks.  The  lead-rack  was  nearly  as  large,  and  beneath 
the  lead-rack  was  a  rack  containing  all  those  "  furnitures  "  which 
help  to  hold  a  form  of  type  together  without  betraying  themselves 
to  the  reader  of  the  printed  sheet.  And  under  the  furniture-rack 
was  the  "  random,"  full  of  galleys.  Then  there  was  a  table  with 
a  top  of  solid  stone,  upon  which  the  forms  were  bolted  up.  And  there 
was  the  ink-slab,  another  solidity,  upon  which  the  ink-rollers  were 
inked.  Rollers  of  various  weightiness  lay  about,  and  large  heavy 
cans,  and  many  bottles,  and  metal  galleys,  and  nameless  fragments 
of  metal.  Everything  contributed  to  the  impression  of  immense 
ponderosity  exceeding  the  imagination.  The  fancy  of  being  pinned 
down  by  even  the  lightest  of  those  constructions  was  excruciating. 
You  moved  about  in  narrow  alleys  among  upstanding  unyielding 
metallic  enormities,  and  you  felt  fragile  and  perilously  soft. 


IV 

The  only  unintimidating  phenomena  in  the  crowded  place  were  the 
lye-brushes,  the  dusty  job-files  that  hung  from  the  great  transverse 
beams,  and  the  proof-sheets  that  were  scattered  about.  These 
printed  things  showed  to  what  extent  Darius  Clayhanger's  establish- 
ment was  a  channel  through  which  the  life  of  the  town  had  some- 
how to  pass.  Auctions,  meetings,  concerts,  sermons,  improving  lec- 
tures, miscellaneous  entertainments,  programs,  catalogues,  deaths, 
births,  marriages,  specifications,  municipal  notices,  summonses,  de- 
mands, receipts,  subscription-lists,  accounts,  rate-forms,  lists  of  voters, 
jury-lists,  inaugurations,  closures,  billheads,  handbills,  addresses, 
visiting-cards,  society-rules,  bargain-sales,  lost  and  found  notices; 
traces  of  all  these  matters,  and  more,  were  to  be  found  in  that  office; 
it  was  impregnated  with  the  human  interest;  it  was  dusty  with  the 
human  interest;  its  hot  smell  seemed  to  you  to  come  off  life  itself, 
if  the  real  sentiment  and  love  of  life  were  sufficiently  in  you.  A 
grand,  stuffy,  living,  seething  place,  with  all  its  metallic  immobility! 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE  213 


Edwin  sidled  towards  the  center  of  interest,  the  new  machine, 
which,  however,  was  not  a  new  machine.  Darius  Clayhanger  did 
not  buy  more  new  things  than  he  could  help.  His  delight  was  to 
"pick  up"  articles  that  were  supposed  to  be  "as  good  as  new"; 
occasionally  he  would  even  assert  that  an  object  bought  second-hand 
was  "  better  than  new,"  because  it  had  been  "  broken  in,"  as  if  it 
were  a  horse.  Nevertheless,  the  latest  machine  was,  for  a  printing 
machine,  nearly  new;  its  age  was  four  years  only.  It  was  a  Demy- 
Columbian  press,  similar  in  conception  and  movement  to  the  historic 
"  old  machine"  that  had  been  through  the  Reform  movement;  but 
how  much  lighter,  how  much  handier,  how  much  more  ingenious  and 
precise  in  the  detail  of  its  working!  A  beautiful  edifice  as  it  stood 
there,  gazed  on  admiringly  by  the  expert  eyes  of  Darius,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves.  Big  James,  the  foreman,  in  his  royally  flowing  apron, 
and  Chawner,  the  journeyman  compositor,  who,  with  the  two  appren- 
tices outside,  completed  the  staff!  Aided  by  no  mechanic  more 
skilled  than  a  day-laborer  those  men  had  got  the  machine  piecemeal 
into  the  office  and  had  duly  erected  it.  At  that  day  a  foreman  had 
to  be  equal  to  anything. 

The  machine  appeared  so  majestic  there,  so  solid  and  immovable, 
that  it  might  ever  have  existed  where  it  then  was.  Who  could  credit 
that  less  than  a  fortnight  earlier  it  had  stood  equally  majestic,  solid, 
and  immovable  at  Manchester?  There  remained  nothing  to  show 
how  the  miracle  had  been  accomplished  except  a  bandage  of  ropes 
round  the  lower  pillars  and  some  pulley-tackle  hanging  from  one  of 
the  transverse  beams  exactly  overhead.  The  situation  of  the  machine 
in  the  workshop  had  been  fixed  partly  by  that  beam  above  and  partly 
by  the  run  of  the  beams  that  supported  the  floor.  The  stout  roof- 
beam  enabled  the  artificers  to  handle  the  great  masses  by  means  of 
the  tackle;  and  as  for  the  floor-beams,  Darius  had  so  far  listened  to 
warnings  as  to  take  them  into  account. 


VI, 

"  Take  another  impress,  James,"  said  Darius.  And  when  he  saw 
Edwin,  instead  of  asking  the  youth  what  he  was  wasting  his  time 
there  for,  he  good-humoredly  added:  "Just  watch  this,  my  lad." 
Darius  was  pleased  with  himself,  his  men,  and  his  acquisition.  He 


214  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

was  in  one  of  his  moods  when  he  could  charm;  he  was  jolly,  and  he 
held  up  his  chin.  Two  days  before,  so  interested  had  he  been  in  the 
Demy- Columbian,  he  had  actually  gone  through  a  bilious  attack 
while  scarcely  noticing  it.  And  now  the  whole  complex  operation  had 
been  brought  to  a  triumphant  conclusion. 

Big  James  inserted  the  sheet  of  paper,  with  gentle  and  fine  move- 
ments. The  journeyman  turned  the  handle,  and  the  bed  of  the 
machine  slid  horizontally  forward  in  frictionless,  stately  silence. 
And  then  Big  James  seized  the  lever  with  his  hairy  arm  bared  to  the 
elbow,  and  pulled  it  over.  The  delicate  process  was  done  with  minute 
and  level  exactitude;  and  adjusted  to  the  thirty-second  of  an  inch, 
the  great  masses  of  metal  had  brought  the  paper  and  the  type  to- 
gether and  separated  them  again.  In  another  moment  Big  James 
drew  out  the  sheet,  and  the  three  men  inspected  it,  each  leaning  over 
it.  A  perfect  impression!  Edwin  could  read  the  characters  in  shining 
wet  ink:  "  Bailiwick  of  Bursley  " — A  perfect  jmpression! 

"  Well,"  said  Darius,  glowing.  "  We've  had  a  bit  o'  luck  in  getting 
that  up!  Never  had  less  trouble!  Shows  we  can  do  better  without 
those  Foundry  chaps  than  with  'em!  James  ye  can  have  a  quart 
brought  in,  if  ye'n  a  mind,  but  I  won't  have  them  apprentices  drink- 
ing! No,  I  won't!  Mrs.  Nixon'll  give  'em  some  nettle-beer  if  they 
fancy  it." 

He  was  benignant.  The  inauguration  of  a  new  machine  deserved 
solemn  recognition,  especially  on  a  hot  day.  It  was  an  event. 

"  A  infant-in-arms  could  turn  this  here,"  murmured  the  journey- 
man, toying  with  the  handle  that  moved  the  bed.  It  was  an  exag- 
geration, but  an  excusable,  poetical  exaggeration. 

Big  James  wiped  his  wrists  on  his  apron. 

vn 

Then  there  was  a  queer  sound  of  cracking  somewhere,  vague,  faint, 
and  yet  formidable.  Darius  was  standing  between  the  machines  and 
the  dismantled  window,  his  back  to  the  latter.  Big  James  and  the 
journeyman  rushed  instinctively  from  the  center  of  the  floor  towards 
him.  In  a  second  the  journeyman  was  on  the  window-sill. 

"  What  art  doing?  "  Darius  demanded  roughly;  but  there  was  no 
sincerity  in  his  voice. 

"  Th'  floor!  "  the  journeyman  excitedly  exclaimed. 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE  215 

Big  James  stood  close  to  the  wall. 

"  And  what  about  th'  floor?  "  Darius  challenged  him  obstinately. 

"  One  o'  them  beams  is  a-going,"  stammered  the  journeyman. 

"  Rubbish!  "  shouted  Darius.  But  simultaneously  he  motioned 
to  Edwin  to  move  from  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  Edwin  obeyed. 
All  four  listened,  with  nerves  stretched  to  the  tightest.  Darius  was 
biting  his  lower  lip  with  his  upper  teeth.  His  humor  had  swiftly 
changed  to  the  savage.  Every  warning  that  had  been  uttered  for 
years  past  concerning  that  floor  was  remembered  with  startling  dis- 
tinctness. Every  impatient  reassurance  offered  by  Darius  for  years 
past  suddenly  seemed  fatuous  and  perverse.  How  could  any  man 
in  his  senses  expect  the  old  floor  to  withstand  such  a  terrific  strain 
as  that  to  which  Darius  had  at  last  dared  to  subject  it?  The  floor 
ought  by  rights  to  have  given  way  years  ago !  His  men  ought  to  have 
declined  to  obey  instructions  that  were  obviously  insane.  These  and 
similar  thoughts  visited  the  minds  of  Big  James  and  the  journeyman. 

As  for  Edwin,  his  excitement  was,  on  balance,  pleasurable.  In 
truth,  he  could  not  kill  in  his  mind  the  hope  that  the  floor  would 
yield.  The  greatness  of  the  resulting  catastrophe  fascinated  him. 
He  knew  that  he  should  be  disappointed  if  the  catastrophe  did  not 
occur.  That  it  would  mean  ruinous  damage  to  the  extent  of  hundreds 
of  pounds,  and  enormous  worry,  did  not  influence  him.  His  reason 
did  not  influence  him,  nor  his  personal  danger.  He  saw  a  large 
hook  in  the  wall  to  which  he  could  cling  when  the  exquisite  crash 
came,  and  he  pictured  a  welter  of  broken  machinery  and  timbers  ten 
feet  below  him,  and  the  immense  pother  that  the  affair  would  create 
in  the  town. 

vni 

Darius  would  not  lose  his  belief  in  his  floor.  He  hugged  it  in 
mute  fury.  He  would  not  climb  on  to  the  window-sill,  nor  tell 
Big  James  to  do  so,  nor  even  Edwin.  On  the  subject  of  the  floor  he 
was  religious;  he  was  above  the  appeal  of  the  intelligence.  He  had 
always  held  passionately  that  the  floor  was  immovable,  and  he 
always  would.  He  had  finally  convinced  himself  of  its  omnipotent 
strength  by  the  long  process  of  assertion  and  reassertion.  When  a 
voice  within  him  murmured  that  his  belief  in  the  floor  had  no 
scientific  basis,  he  strangled  the  voice.  So  he  remained,  motionless, 
between  the  window  and  the  machine. 


216  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

No  sound!  No  slightest  sound!  No  tremor  of  the  machine! 
But  Darius's  breathing  could  be  heard  after  a  moment. 

He  guffawed  sneeringly. 

"  And  what  next?  "  he  defiantly  asked,  scowling.  "  What's  amiss 
wi'  ye  all?  "  He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "  Dun  ye  mean 
to  tell  me  as " 

The  younger  apprentice  entered  from  the  engine-shed. 

"  Get  back  there!  "  rolled  and  thundered  the  voice  of  Big  James. 
It  was  the  first  word  he  had  spoken  and  he  did  not  speak  it  in  frantic, 
hysteric  command,  but  with  a  terrible  and  convincing  mildness! 
The  phrase  fell  on  the  apprentice  like  a  sandbag  and  he  vanished. 

Darius  said  nothing.  There  was  another  cracking  sound,  louder, 
and  unmistakably  beneath  the  bed  of  the  machine.  And  at  the  same 
instant  a  flake  of  grimy  plaster  detached  itself  from  the  opposite 
wall  and  dropped  into  pale  dust  on  the  floor.  And  still  Darius 
religiously  did  not  move,  and  Big  James  would  not  move.  They 
might  have  been  under  a  spell.  The  journeyman  jumped  down  in- 
cautiously into  the  yard. 

DC 

And  then  Edwin,  hardly  knowing  what  he  did,  and  certainly  not 
knowing  why  he  did  it,  walked  quickly  out  on  to  the  floor,  seized  the 
huge  hook  attached  to  the  lower  pulley  of  the  tackle  that  hung  from 
the  roof-beam,  pulled  up  the  slack  of  the  rope-bandage  on  the  hind 
part  of  the  machine  and  stuck  the  hook  into  it ;  then  walked  quickly 
back.  The  hauling  rope  of  the  tackle  had  been  carried  to  the  iron 
ring  of  a  trapdoor  in  the  corner  near  Big  James;  this  trapdoor,  once 
the  outlet  of  the  interior  staircase  from  the  ground  floor,  had  been 
nailed  down  many  years  previously.  Big  James  dropped  to  his  knees 
and  tightened  and  knotted  the  rope.  Another  and  much  louder 
noise  of  cracking  followed,  the  floor  visibly  yielded  and  the  hind 
part  of  the  machine  visibly  sank  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  But 
no  more.  The  tackle  held.  The  strain  was  distributed  between  the 
beam  above  and  the  beam  below,  and  equilibrium  established. 

"  Out!  Lad!  Out!  "  cried  Darius  feebly,  in  the  wreck,  not  of 
his  workshop  but  of  his  religion.  And  Edwin  fled  down  the  steps, 
pushing  the  mystified  apprentices  before  him,  and  followed  by  the 
men.  In  the  yard  the  journeyman,  entirely  self-centered,  was  hop- 
ping about  on  orfe  leg  and  cursing. 


A  PRINTING-OFFICE  217 


Darius,  Big  James  and  Edwin  stared  in  the  morning  sunshine  at 
the  aperture  of  the  window,  and  listened. 

"  Nay!  "  said  Big  James  after  an  eternity.  "  He's  saved  it! 
He's  saved  th'  old  shop!  But  by  gum — by  gum! " 

Darius  turned  to  Edwin,  and  tried  to  say  something;  and  then 
Edwin  saw  his  father's  face  working  into  monstrous  angular  shapes, 
and  saw  the  tears  spurt  out  of  his  eyes;  and  was  clutched  con- 
vulsively in  his  father's  shirt-sleeved  arms.  He  was  very  proud, 
very  pleased;  but  he  did  not  like  this  embrace;  it  made  him  feel 
ashamed.  And  although  he  had  incontestably  done  something  which 
was  very  wonderful  and  very  heroic,  and  which  proved  in  him  the 
most  extraordinary  presence  of  mind,  he  could  not  honestly  glorify 
himself  in  his  own  heart,  because  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  had 
acted  exactly  like  an  automaton.  He  blankly  marveled,  and  thought 
the  situation  agreeably  thrilling,  if  somewhat  awkward.  His  father 
let  him  go.  Then  all  Edwin's  feelings  gave  place  to  an  immense 
stupefaction  at  his  father's  truly  remarkable  behavior.  What!  His 
father  emotional!  He  had  to  begin  to  revise  again  his  settled  views. 


IN  THE  QUARRIES 
BY  EDEN  PHILLPOTTS 

DELABOLE  is  a  hamlet  created  by  one  industry,  whose  men  and 
boys  to  the  number  of  five  hundred  work  in  the  slate  quarries,  as 
their  forefathers  have  done  and  their  children's  children  will  do. 
Since  Tudor  times  the  slate  of  Delabole  has  come  to  market,  for 
men  worked  here  before  Shakespeare  wrote. 

But  the  theatre  of  their  toil  is  not  immediately  visible. 

Beneath  Delabole  an  artificial  mountain  of  shining  stone  rolls 
out  upon  the  slope  of  the  meadows,  and  creates  a  landmark  to  be 
seen  for  many  miles.  Behind  these  mounds  the  earth  vanishes  sud- 
denly, and  there  yawns  an  immense  crater.  It  sinks  below  the  sur- 
face of  the  land,  and  the  mouth  of  it  is  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  across.  Round  about  the  pit  stand  offices,  shops,  and  engine- 
houses.  An  iron  structure  ascends  upon  the  landing-stage,  or  pappot- 
head,  above  a  stark  precipice  of  six  hundred  feet,  and  every  way  at 
the  surface  there  threads  and  twists  a  network  of  little  rails.  They 
run  round  about  to  the  shops,  to  the  larger  gauge  of  the  main  line, 
to  the  forehead  of  the  mountains  of  waste  stuff,  whose  feet  are  in  the 
green  fields  far  beneath.  Here  open  the  quarries  of  Delabole,  and 
though  they  have  been  yielding  slate  for  some  hundred  years,  the 
supply  continues  to  meet  all  demand.  Of  old  a  dozen  separate 
workings  stood  in  proximity;  now  they  have  run  together,  and  their 
circumference  is  a  mile. 

It  is  an  oval  cup  with  surfaces  that  slope  outward  from  the  bottom. 
The  sides  are  precipices,  some  abrupt  and  beetling  with  sheer  falls 
of  many  hundred  feet,  while  others  reveal  a  gentler  declivity,  and 
their  sides  are  broken  by  giant  steps.  Here  and  there  the  over- 
burden has  fallen  in,  and  moraines  of  rubbish  tower  cone-shaped 
against  the  quarry  sides.  They  spread  from  a  point  high  up  on  the 
cliff  face  and  ooze  out  in  great  wedges  of  waste,  whose  worthless 
masses  smother  good  slate.  The  sides  of  the  crater  are  chased  with 
galleries,  and  burnished  with  bright  colors  spread  and  splashed  over 
the  planes  of  the  cliffs.  Some  of  these  rock-cut  galleries  are  now 
disused,  others  are  bare  and  raw,  with  the  bright  thread  of  tram- 
218 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  219 

lines  glittering  along  them;  but  in  the  neglected  regions  Nature  has 
returned  to  weather  the  stone  with  wonderful  color  and  trace  rich 
harmonies  of  russet  and  amber  upon  it.  Here,  too,  growing  things 
have  found  foothold,  and  bird-borne,  air-borne,  water-borne  seeds 
have  germinated  in  the  high  crags  and  lonely  workings.  Saplings 
of  ash,  beech,  and  willow  make  shift  to  grow,  and  the  rust  of  de- 
serted tramways  or  obsolete  machinery  is  hidden  under  ferns  and 
grasses  and  wild  blossoms.  To  the  east,  where  falling  waters  sheet  a 
great  red  rock-surface,  wakens  the  monkey-flower  in  springtime  to 
fling  a  flash  of  gold  amid  the  blues  and  grays,  while  elsewhere  iron 
percolations  and  the  drippings  from  superincumbent  earth  stain  the 
sides  of  this  great  embouchure  to  a  medley  and  mosaic  of  rich  color. 
Evening  fills  the  quarry  with  wine-purple  that  mounts  to  the  brim 
as  night  falls  upon  it;  dawn  chases  its  sides  with  silver,  and  sunrise 
often  floods  it  with  red-gold.  Sometimes,  at  seasons  of  autumnal 
rain,  the  cliffs  spout  white  waterfalls  that  thread  the  declivities  with 
foam  and  swell  the  tarn  at  the  bottom;  while  in  summer  the  sea 
mists  find  it,  fill  it,  conceal  the  whole  wonder  of  it,  and  muffle  the 
din  of  the  workers  at  the  bottom. 

The  active  galleries  wind  away  to  present  centers  of  attack,  and 
terminate  at  the  new-wrought  and  naked  faces  of  the  slate.  These 
spots  glitter  steel-bright  in  contrast  with  the  older  workings.  They 
open  gray  and  blue  where  man's  labor  is  fretting  the  face  of  the 
quarries  at  a  dozen  different  points.  Chief  activity  was  now  con- 
centrated upon  the  great  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seam,  under  the  northern 
precipice,  and  there  labored  two  hundred  men  to  blast  the  rock  and 
fill  the  tumbrils  that  came  and  went. 

The  great  slate  cup  is  full  of  light;  it  is  gemmed  and  adorned  so 
that  no  plane  or  scarp  lacks  beauty.  On  a  bluff  westward  still  stand 
half  a  dozen  trees  that  bring  spring  green  hither  in  April,  and  make 
a  pillar  of  fire  at  autumn-time,  until  the  shadows  swallow  them,  or 
the  winds  that  scour  the  quarry  find  their  dead  leaves  and  send  them 
flying.  Along  the  galleries  that  circle  the  sides  of  Old  Delabole  are 
sheds  and  pent-roofs,  where  a  man  may  shelter  against  the  hail  of  the 
blastings;  while  aloft,  beside  the  trees  on  the  knoll,  stands  a  white- 
washed cottage,  high  above  the  bottom  of  the  quarries,  but  far  below 
their  surface.  Other  dwellings  once  stood  here,  but  they  have  vanished 
away  for  the  sake  of  the  good  slate  seams  on  which  they  stood. 
Now  only  Wilberforce  Retallack's  home  remained,  and  that,  too,  with 


220  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  cluster  of  trees  beside  it,  was  doomed  presently  to  vanish.  The 
house  and  its  garden  of  flowers  and  shrubs  might  exist  for  a  few 
more  years,  then  it  would  follow  its  neighbors  that  once  clustered 
beside  it,  like  sea-birds'  nests  upon  an  ocean-facing  crag. 

Beside  the  cottage  there  fell  the  great  main  entrance  to  the 
quarries — a  steep  plane  of  eight  hundred  feet  that  ran  straight  into 
the  lowest  depths  and  bore  four  main  lines  of  tramway  to  the  bottom, 
with  other  shorter  lines  that  branched  upon  the  sides.  Up  and  down 
this  great  artery  the  little  tumbrils  ran.  Steel  ropes  drew  and  lowered 
them.  They  rushed  down  swiftly,  and  slowly  toiled  up  again  laden 
with  treasure  or  rubbish. 

Beneath  the  cottage,  against  a  cliff  that  fell  abruptly  from  the 
edge  of  the  foreman's  garden,  stood  two  great  water-wheels,  jutting 
from  the  rock,  and  a  steam-pump  also  panted  beside  them.  These 
fought  the  green-eyed  tarn  beneath  and  sucked  away  its  substance, 
that  it  might  not  increase  and  drown  the  lowermost  workings.  At 
the  bottom  of  all  things  it  lay  and  stared  up,  like  a  lidless  eye,  from 
the  heart  of  the  cup. 

Besides  the  great  plane  that  bore  the  chief  business  of  the 
quarries  and  by  which  the  rock-men  descended  and  ascended  from 
their  work,  there  existed  another  means  of  lifting  the  stone  and 
"  deads  "  to  the  surface.  From  the  pappot-head  there  slanted  threads 
of  steel  to  the  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seams,  and  by  these  also  the  little 
trolleys  came  and  went,  or  the  great  blocks  swam  aloft — a  mass  of  a 
hundredweight  flying  upward,  as  lightly  as  down  of  thistles  on  a 
puff  of  air.  To  the  earth  they  rose,  then  the  flying  waggons  alighted 
upon  the  tram-lines,  and  a  locomotive  carried  the  trucks  away. 

Against  the  cliff-faces  these  steel  ropes  stretch  like  gossamers, 
and  behind  them,  upon  the  rosy  and  gray  stone,  light  paints  as  on 
a  canvas,  and  makes  the  quarry  magical  with  sunshine  and  vapor, 
the  shadows  of  clouds  and  rainbow  colors  after  rain.  From  the 
pappot-head  the  immensity  of  the  space  beneath  may  be  observed. 
Like  mites  in  a  ripe  cheese  the  men  move,  and  among  them,  shrunk 
to  the  size  of  black  spiders,  stand  cranes  and  engines,  and  a  great 
steam-shovel  scooping  debris  from  a  fall.  From  these  engines  come 
puffs  of  white  steam,  and  sometimes  a  steam-whistle  squeaks.  The 
din  of  work  arises  thinly,  like  hum  and  stridulation  of  insects;  but 
Old  Delabole  is  never  silent.  By  day  the  blast  and  steam-whistle 
echo,  and  the  noise  of  men,  the  quarryman's  chant  at  his  work,  the 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  221 

chink  of  picks  and  tampers,  the  hiss  of  air-drills  and  chime  of  jack- 
daws cease  not;  while  night  knows  an  endless  whispering  and  trickle 
of  little  sounds.  Water  forever  tinkles  through  the  darkness,  and 
there  is  a  murmur  of  moving  earth  and  rustle  of  falling  stone  obeying 
the  drag  of  gravitation  through  nocturnal  silences.  That  iron  law 
is  written  on  more  than  senseless  matter,  for  Delabole  has  its  full 
story  of  human  accident.  You  shall  not  walk  through  the  streets 
without  seeing  maimed  men  who  have  lost  an  arm  or  leg  in  the 
battle,  and  the  long  years  of  quarry  chronicle  are  punctuated  by 
black-letter  days  of  disaster  and  death. 

The  rock-men  are  scattered  everywhere — white,  gray,  and  black. 
Now  they  combine  to  heave  a  block  on  a  trolley,  now  they  hang  aloft 
on  ropes  or  ladders,  now  they  push  the  tumbrils  to  and  from  the 
cranes,  now  they  control  the  engines  and  handle  the  great  steam- 
shovel.  Into  a  moraine  it  drives  with  a  grinding  crash,  then  strains 
upwards,  and  scoops  a  ton  of  rubbish  at  a  thrust.  Pick  and  shovel 
are  at  work  everywhere.  The  long  snakes  of  the  air-drills  twine 
down  the  quarry  sides  to  fresh  places  of  attack,  and  a  distinctive, 
steady  screech  arises  where  their  steel  teeth  gnaw  holes  into  the 
rock,  and  the  dust  flies  in  little  puffs. 

From  time  to  time  a  whistle  sounds,  and  the  midgets  take  cover. 
From  a  pit  or  ledge  the  last  man  leaps  hurriedly,  having  lighted 
a  fuse  before  departing;  then  a  billow  of  smoke  bursts  outward, 
and  the  ignition  of  black  blasting-powder  or  dynamite  rends  the 
stubborn  rock-face.  First  comes  the  roar  of  the  explosion,  then  the 
crash  and  clatter  of  the  falling  stone — a  sound  like  the  cry  of  a  reced- 
ing wave  on  some  pebbly  beach.  The  cup  of  the  quarry  catches  and 
retains  the  din,  reverberating  its  concussions  round  and  round  until 
they  fade  and  die. 

The  immensity  of  the  quarries  might  well  be  marked  from  below. 
Over  the  green  pool  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit  there  passed  a  trestle- 
bridge,  and  around  it  the  space,  that  appeared  shrunk  to  nothing 
when  seen  from  above,  spread  out  in  some  acres  of  apparent  con- 
fusion and  chaos.  A  village  might  have  stood  here.  The  main 
incline  sloped  upward  like  a  mountain-side,  and  the  whole  bewilder- 
ing region  was  scored  with  glittering  tram-lines  on  different  planes, 
that  ran  hither  and  thither,  rose  and  fell,  and  ended  at  the  various 
centers  and  galleries  where  work  progressed.  The  pappot-head  tow- 
ered six  hundred  feet  above  on  the  western  cliffs,  and  round  about 


222  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

wheeled  the  amphitheatre  of  crags  and  precipices,  now  lifted  in  giant 
steps,  now  stark,  now  furrowed  and  wrinkled,  and  overhanging  with 
threats  of  implicit  peril.  At  this  season  much  water  was  finding  its 
way  into  the  quarries,  and  the  pool  often  rose  a  foot  in  a  night. 
Many  a  rill  spouted  against  the  purple  and  olive  sides  of  the  slate, 
and  from  rifts  and  cracks  in  the  quarry  walls  came  threads  of  water. 
Elsewhere,  over  ledges  and  old  workings,  a  thin  rain  of  scattered  tor- 
rents misted,  and  sometimes,  when  the  low  sun  burned  into  the 
depths,  it  touched  these  vapors  and  set  a  rainbow  there.  Then  the 
faces  of  the  rock  were  transformed,  and  their  wetness  shone  orange- 
tawny,  gold,  and  crimson.  One  heard  the  eternal  whisper  and  mur- 
mur of  many  waters,  the  clank  of  the  pump,  and  the  steady  thud  of 
the  great  water-wheels  that  sucked  day  and  night  at  the  tarn  beneath 
them.  The  floods  were  drawn  off  by  unseen  ways  through  the  side  of 
the  quarries,  and  the  water  was  used  aloft  for  the  steam-engines 
that  hoisted  the  slate  from  beneath  and  ran  the  machinery  for  cut- 
ting and  dressing  above. 

PART  n 

The  time  was  early  autumn  and  the  hour  approaching  noon. 

Suddenly  Wilberforce  Retallack,  the  foreman,  stopped,  bent  his 
eyes  on  the  earth,  and  started  back  as  though  he  had  been  about 
to  tread  upon  a  snake.  A  layman's  glance  would  have  marked 
nothing  but  muddy  soil  and  debris  of  stone  scattered  over  it;  but 
Retallack 's  eye  saw  more.  He  knelt  down  and  started  at  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  black  hair  stretched  on  the  ground.  So  like  a  hair 
it  looked,  that  he  made  sure  it  was  not.  Then  he  rose  and,  stooping 
low,  quartered  the  cliff-top  carefully  for  fifty  yards,  and  left  not  a 
square  foot  of  the  surface  unexamined.  Two  more  of  the  hair-lines 
he  found.  They  were  disposed  at  a  considerable  distance  from  the 
first  discovery,  and  lay  farther  inward  from  the  quarry  edge. 

The  man  had  gone  purple  in  the  face,  partly  from  continued 
stooping  and  partly  from  the  tremendous  emotions  excited  by  his 
discovery.  His  feet  shook  under  him  and  his  breathing  became  dif- 
ficult. He  panted  and  sat  down  suddenly  upon  a  shelf  of  slate,  where 
the  ground  was  broken  by  a  two-foot  step.  For  a  moment  he  closed 
his  eyes;  then  he  opened  them  again,  drew  out  a  pocket-handker- 
chief, and  mopped  his  wet  brow.  He  looked  round  him,  and  his 
expression  was  dazed.  He  drew  deep  breaths  that  lifted  his  big 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  223 

chest;  he  stared  blankly  at  the  earth.  The  sound  of  blasting 
ascended  from  far  below.  First  came  the  thunder  of  the  explosion, 
then  the  hiss  and  rattle  of  falling  stone,  lastly  the  echo  and  reverbera- 
tion as  the  noise  swept  round  the  quarry  and  faintly  died.  The 
explosion  aroused  him,  and  he  came  to  himself,  stood  up,  and  drew 
a  whistle  from  his  pocket.  Thrice  he  blew  it,  and  one  of  the  "  holla- 
boys  "  at  the  pappot-head  marked  him  and  ran  to  his  bidding. 

"  Get  round  to  the  landing-stage,"  he  said,  "  and  stop  Mr.  Tonkin 
and  Mr.  Nanjulian.  They'll  be  coming  up  in  a  minute.  And  tell 
them  I  want  them  on  the  top  of  the  '  Grey  Abbey!  ' 

A  steam-hooter  announced  noon  as  he  spoke,  and  the  boy  ran 
off,  to  intercept  Noah  Tonkin  and  Retallack's  colleague  when  they 
reached  the  surface.  Five  minutes  later  they  came  up  in  the  same 
trolley,  received  their  message,  and  proceeded  to  join  Wilberforce 
where  he  stood  on  the  cliff.  Behind  them,  along  a  path  beside  the 
railway,  strings  of  men  were  hastening  away  to  dinner,  and  Wilber- 
force said  nothing  until  they  were  gone.  Then  he  spoke. 

"  I  can't  trust  myself  to-day,"  he  declared.  "  I'm  not  very  well, 
and  I've  got  private  troubles  on  my  mind.  I'm  hoping  my  eyes  are 
out  of  order,  and  that  I'm  seeing  what's  not  there.  Just  look  this 
way,  you  two,  and  tell  me  if  there's  anything  the  matter  with  me, 
or  if  it's  true." 

He  had  marked  the  hair-lines  with  stones,  and  now  let  Nanjulian 
and  Tonkin  see  if  they,  too,  observed  them.  They  did.  Then  only 
in  lesser  degree  than  Retallack  they  exhibited  their  alarm. 

"My  God!  it's  all  up— it's  '  good-bye,' "  said  Tonkin.  "This 
means  the  end  of  the  l  Grey  Abbey ';  and  that  means  the  end 
of  Delabole!  " 

To  the  older  minds  the  tremendous  discovery  promised  to  put  a 
period  to  their  ancient  industry;  to  Nanjulian,  one  of  a  younger 
generation,  the  impact  of  this  discovery,  while  crushing  enough,  did 
not  unman  him. 

For  the  space  of  a  week  silence  was  kept  respecting  the  pend- 
ing catastrophe;  then  the  hair-lines  had  expanded  and  were  a  third 
of  an  inch  across.  They  extended  over  a  surface  of  seventy  yards, 
and  indicated  pretty  accurately  the  nature  of  the  imminent  disaster. 
The  overburden  of  the  quarry  was  coming  in,  and  the  fall  was  un- 
fortunately destined  to  submerge  the  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seam.  Months 
might  elapse  before  the  landslip:  Hawkey,  the  manager,  gave  it  four 


224  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

and  Retallack  calculated  that  it  would  take  six;  but  the  end  was 
inevitable,  and  no  physical  powers  within  the  control  of  man  could 
have  held  up  that  enormous  cliff-face.  The  greatest  fall  ever 
recorded  in  the  history  of  Delabole  was  coming;  but  when  it  would 
come  remained  a  matter  of  doubt.  The  writing  on  the  earth  might 
be  expected  to  afford  data  and  tell  the  nearer  approach  of  the  down- 
fall from  week  to  week. 

There  came  a  morning  when,  after  examination  of  the  cliffs,  Tom 
Hawkey,  Retallack,  and  Nanjulian  decided  that  work  beneath  them 
must  cease.  Preparations  had  long  been  in  hand  for  the  approach- 
ing fall,  and  it  was  now  judged  that  within  a  week  or  ten  days  the 
huge  mass  would  come  down.  Ample  margins  of  safety  were,  of 
course,  allowed.  The  last  stroke  was  struck,  the  last  load  of  the 
famous  "  Grey  Abbey  "  slate  was  drawn  away.  It  seemed  unlikely 
that  the  living  generation  would  ever  look  upon  these  galleries  again. 

One  by  one  the  steam-engines  were  drawn  back  from  their  places, 
and  the  cranes  and  great  steam-shovel  taken  beyond  reach  of  danger. 
The  tram-rails  were  also  pulled  up  and  all  appliances  of  value  re- 
moved. Hawkey  and  Nanjulian  devoted  themselves  to  personal 
superintendence  of  this  work,  and  the  former  calculated  that  the  fall 
would  cover  an'  expanse  of  not  much  less  than  fifty  yards,  and  go 
far  to  fill  the  green  lake  at  the  bottom  of  the  workings.  Beyond  this 
gulf  it  could  not  reach,  though  it  was  probable  that  single  blocks 
and  masses  of  stone  precipitated  from  the  great  height  of  the  cliffs 
might  fly  or  ricochet  to  bombard  a  more  extended  area.  For  this 
reason  all  machinery  was  drawn  back  to  the  foot  of  the  quarries; 
the  steel  ropes  that  fell  to  the  foot  of  the  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seams  from 
the  pappot-head  were  also  cast  loose  and  drawn  out  of  harm's  way. 

For  some  days  the  face  of  the  rocks  had  begun  to  shed  fragments. 
Here  a  load  of  earth  slipped  from  above;  here  a  ton  of  stone,  its 
support  removed,  would  descend,  dragging  lesser  boulders  with  it. 
But  now  an  abyss  opened  between  solid  earth  and  the  tottering 
precipices.  They  looked  as  though  the  push  of  a  child  would  fling 
them  headlong,  yet  they  weathered  some  nights  of  storm  through 
which  the  village  slumbered  but  little,  for  every  man  and  woman  ex- 
pected to  hear  the  thunder  of  the  falling  cliff  before  dawn,  and  many 
slept  not,  but  abode  in  the  quarry  to  witness  the  tremendous  spectacle, 
as  far  as  a  clouded  moon  would  show  it. 

Yet  morning  after  morning  found  the  cliffs  still  standing,  and 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  225 

now  daily  the  high  ground  above  the  quarries  clear  of  the  north  face 
was  crowded  with  people  who  lined  each  edge  and  waited,  expecting 
that  at  any  moment  the  end  might  come.  Work  was  practically  sus- 
pended now,  and  in  the  village  itself  all  business  appeared  to  be  at 
a  standstill  save  the  business  of  eating  and  drinking. 

Then,  on  the  actual  day  of  the  fall  a  spirit  seemed  to  get  into  the 
air  and  an  impulse  drove  Delabole  to  the  quarries.  It  was  contrary 
to  nature  that  the  precipice  should  longer  stand.  Night  had  seen  a 
minor  slip  and  the  folk  knew,  without  being  told,  that  the  end  had 
come;  they  poured  into  the  quarry  and  gathered  along  the  terraces 
to  the  west  and  south,  as  though  attending  some  great  spectacle 
timed  for  a  punctual  hour.  The  workers  lined  the  banks,  and  half 
the  village  accompanied  them. 

Children  were  on  the  mounds  and  ledges  above  the  quarry.  They 
whistled  and  shouted  and  were  from  time  to  time  cuffed  and  driven 
back  into  safety. 

The  crowds  increased  and  the  best  points  of  view  were  besieged. 
Pressure  became  exerted,  and  when  a  hundred  tons  of  rock  and  earth 
suddenly  fell  from  the  forehead  of  the  north  face,  the  people,  sup- 
posing the  great  spectacle  about  to  begin,  made  a  rush  for  certain 
points.  On  the  open  ground  between  the  cliff  edge  and  the  office 
a  great  congestion  occurred  and  the  crowd  swayed  and  massed.  The 
awe  and  fear  that  had  dominated  so  many  minds  in  the  past  seemed 
strangely  to  have  lifted,  and  here,  in  the  shadow  of  the  crisis,  a 
cheerful  spirit  was  apparent.  An  unconscious  feeling  that  they  were 
assembled  at  a  show  got  hold  upon  them.  The  excitement  of  the 
actual  demonstration  for  a  time  made  them  forget  its  significance,  and 
not  until  afterwards  did  dread  and  despair  reawaken.  For  the  hour 
they  were  almost  merry.  Some  sang  and  jested.  Salutations  passed, 
and  men  and  women  who  had  not  met  for  months  came  together  in 
the  crowd  and  talked  with  animation  of  common  friends  and  the 
events  of  their  private  lives. 

Suddenly  a  jagged  rift,  shaped  like  a  flash  of  lightning,  was  torn 
across  the  face  of  the  falling  rocks.  It  appeared  half-way  up  the 
precipice  and  began  to  widen  as  the  stone  slipped  down.  The  sound 
of  a  low  hissing  accompanied  this  phenomenon;  but  it  was  not  so 
loud  as  the  murmur  of  the  people.  The  rock  slid  down;  then  a  face 
of  harder  rock  that  slightly  overhung  the  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seams  with- 
stood the  rush  of  it  and  cast  it  to  the  right  and  left  as  the  bow  of  a 
15 


226  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

moving  ship  parts  the  water.  In  a  gigantic  ripple  of  earth  and 
stone,  with  increasing  roar  the  land  slipped  downward,  and  it  seemed 
that  an  invisible  finger  broke  the  avalanche  and  cast  it  to  the  right 
and  left.  The  precipices  had  not  fallen  and  as  yet  no  more  than 
a  huge  mass  of  their  lower  planes  was  broken  away.  The  sound  of  the 
descending  stone  was  not  so  great  as  a  dynamite  explosion. 

"  Tis  no  more  than  if  the  bottom  of  the  cliff  had  rose  up  and  sat 
down  again!  "  cried  Noah  Tonkin. 

A  cloud  of  dust  rose  thinly  as  the  falling  masses  spread  upon  the 
bottom ;  but  it  was  not  dense  enough  to  conceal  the  workings.  They 
were  unhurt,  and  debris  flowed  in  great  rivers  to  the  right  and  left, 
while  a  flood  of  stone  and  dust,  thrown  clear,  as  water  over  the  apron 
of  a  fall,  jumped  the  "  Grey  Abbey  "  and  dropped  into  the  green 
eye  of  the  little  tarn  far  beneath. 

The  watchers  could  not  believe  their  eyes.  Inexperienced  men 
laughed  for  joy. 

"  Good  fall!  "    "  Good  fall!  "    "  All's  right!  "    "  Praise  God!  " 

Three  hundred  happy  men  lifted  their  voices,  and  some  began  to 
sing  a  hymn;  while  among  the  younger  not  a  few  started  to  descend. 
But  Jack  Keat  at  one  point,  Nanjulian  at  another,  called  them  back. 

"  You  buffle-heads — ain't  you  got  eyes?  It's  not  down  yet!  " 
shQute.d  Keat;  and  Hawkey  from  his  standpoint  also  shouted  to  the 
men  to  come  back. 

As  yet  no  mare  than  the  foam  of  the  wave  had  fallen. 

There  was  disorder;  hope  dwindled  and  the  hymn  ceased.  Then 
fell  more  rock,  and  the  great,  solid,  canopy  of  the  "  Grey  Abbey  " 
that  had  cast  the  first  fall  aside  so  easily  and  protected  its  precious 
trust,  now  seemed  itself  to  move.  It  bellied,  as  though  some  im- 
prisoned monster  were  bursting  through  the  solid  rock;  it  crumpled 
and  opened;  then  those  stationed  below  the  level  of  the  quarry  saw 
the  horizon  line  of  the  north  face  change.  At  first  it  seemed  to  rise 
rather  than  fall  and  the  entire  surface  of  cliff  lifted.  The  effect  was 
terrific,  and  men  said  afterward  that  it  looked  as  though  the  railway 
and  the  houses  and  the  church,  far  behind  them,  must  all  inevitably 
follow.  The  cliff  arched,  like  an  enormous  wave,  and  as  spindrift 
bursts  from  the  crest  when  a  billow  arches,  so  now,  along  the  toppling 
land  in  its  tremendous  descent,  much  lighter  matter  leapt  and  fell. 
Clouds  of  stone  and  earth  seemed  to  lift  with  a  spring  into  the  blue 
sky  and  sunshine,  and  to  gleam  along  its  crown  for  a  second.  Then 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  227 

the  precipice  arched  and  its  own  great  purple  shadow  darkened  its 
base.  At  first  it  seemed  that  the  enormous  bulk  of  stone  would  cross 
the  breadth  of  the  quarry  to  assail  the  galleries  on  the  other  side,  and 
many  beholders  struggled  back  in  unreasoning  panic;  but  a  moment 
later,  as  it  sank  and  fell  headfirst  into  the  gulf  below,  the  mass 
appeared  to  recede  again  and  shrink  into  the  depths  that  yawned 
to  swallow  it.  For  a  few  tremendous  seconds  the  whole  quarry  face 
writhed  and  opened  with  rents  and  fissures  all  bursting  downward. 
Light  streamed  upon  it  and  no  explosions  or  detonations  marked  the 
fall.  It  uttered  the  long-drawn  and  deepening  growl  of  a  stormy 
sea  heard  afar  off.  The  quarry  was  skinned  to  the  bone  and  grit  its 
teeth  in  agony.  More  cliff  fell  than  any  man  had  expected  to  fall, 
and  the  very  bases  of  the  world  seemed  shaken  before  such  irre- 
sistible might.  The  earth  lifted  its  murmur  to  heaven  and  the  deso- 
lation was  swiftly  concealed  by  enormous  volumes  of  dust  that  bil- 
lowed upward  and  ascended  high  above  the  beholders  in  a  gray 
volume.  The  folds  of  it  gleamed  as  the  sun  shone  upon  them,  and  the 
quarry  was  quite  hidden,  as  an  active  volcano  crater  is  concealed  with 
smoke.  The  watchers  could  see  no  more,  but  through  the  murk 
there  still  came  the  murmur  and  groan  of  earth  falling  and  settling 
and  readjusting  itself. 

There  was  no  rush  into  the  quarries  now.  The  men  feared  the 
strange  noises  and  invisible  movements  beneath  them.  They  under- 
stood the  ways  of  falling  stone  and  knew  that  the  pant  and  hiss  and 
whistling  from  below  meant  a  battle  of  rock  masses  beating  and 
crushing  and  hurtling  down  upon  each  other,  crashing  together,  rend- 
ing and  grinding  each  other's  faces,  splitting  and  tearing  and  tumbling 
with  increased  speed  where  the  splintered  slopes  were  smoothed  and 
ground  clear  by  the  downrush  from  above.  The  pant  and  growl  of 
all  this  movement  died  slowly,  aiid  sometimes  moments  of  profound 
stillness  broke  it.  Then  again  it  began  and  lifted  and  lulled,  now 
dying,  now  deepening.  It  was  as  though  in  a  great  theatre,  made  dark 
for  a  moment,  one  heard  the  hurryings  and  tramplings  of  many  feet 
changing  the  scene  before  light  should  again  be  thrown"  upon 
the  stage. 

None  of  the  thousand  people  who  beheld  this  scene  had  witnessed 
or  dreamed  of  such  an  event.  It  affected  them  differently  and  they 
increased  its  solemnity  and  grandeur  by  their  presence.  Some  wept 
and  here  and  there  a  woman  clung  to  a  man  for  comfort  and  found 


228  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

none.  The  majority  of  the  men  remained  quite  dumb  before  the 
spectacle.  None  cared  to  speak  first.  Then  apprehension  and  under- 
standing returned;  they  came  to  themselves  gradually  as  the  solemn 
sounds  died  away  beneath. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  and  some  laughed  foolishly 
and  some  bragged  that  it  was  a  poor  show  after  all  and  they  were 
going  home  to  dinner.  Hundreds  prepared  to  rush  into  the  quarry 
as  soon  as  they  could  see  their  way  and  the  clouds  had  thinned ;  then, 
by  a  sort  of  simultaneous  instinct,  their  eyes  were  turned  upon  Tom 
Hawkey,  where  he  stood  alone  regarding  the  new  face  of  the  quarry 
now  for  the  first  time  slowly  limning  through  the  sunlit  dust.  Every- 
body began  to  regard  him;  everybody  began  to  suspend  interest  in 
the  fall  and  to  awake  interest  in  him.  This  excitement  increased  mag- 
netically; pent  feeling  was  poured  into  it;  his  attitude  suddenly 
became  a  matter  of  profoundest  interest.  How  was  he  looking? 
What  was  he  feeling?  In  what  direction,  sanguine  or  hopeless,  might 
opinion  be  guided  by  the  spectacle  of  the  manager  and  his  view  of  the 
terrific  thing  that  had  happened? 

Such  a  wave  of  emotion  could  not  be  directed  upon  the  man  with- 
out his  becoming  conscious  of  it.  It  struck  him  home  and  he  knew, 
without  turning  his  head,  that  the  people  were  regarding  him.  He 
must  indicate  something  to  them,  inspire  them,  if  possible,  with  an 
impulse  of  self-control,  a  message  that  all  was  not  lost.  He  felt  pro- 
foundly moved  himself  at  the  immensity  of  the  event  and  could  not 
as  yet  judge  its  full  significance  better  than  another.  But  apart  from 
all  that  the  catastrophe  might  mean,  there  was  the  actual,  stupendous 
phenomenon  itself.  He  had  often  pictured  it  and  wondered  what  it 
would  be  like.  And  now  it  had  come  and  transcended  imagination 
and  presented  a  spectacle  of  quickened  natural  forces  that  struck  him 
as  dumb  as  the  rest.  He  contrasted  the  downfall  of  the  north  face 
with  the  dismay  running  through  the  midgets  that  beheld  it ;  and  for 
a  moment  the  immensity  of  moving  matter  and  the  awful  disaster  to 
the  rocks  swelled  largest  in  his  mind.  So  doubtless  the  earth  was 
smitten  in  still  mightier  scale  at  times  of  earthquake  and  the  eruption 
of  her  inner  fires.  Then  he  looked  at  the  people  and  felt  that  not 
the  chaos  of  rent  stones,  but  the  chaos  of  their  hearts  was  the  weighty 
matter;  not  the  new  quarry  presently  to  be  revealed,  but  the  men  he 
led,  who  now,  by  some  impulse  that  ran  like  a  fire  through  their 
hearts,  stared  upon  him  and  strove  if  possible  to  glean  reflection  of 


IN  THE  QUARRIES  229 

their  fate  from  his  bearing  at  this  supreme  moment.  He  stood  for 
more  than  he  guessed,  yet  knew  that  the  eyes  of  many  waited  upon 
him  in  hope  to  win  a  spark  of  confidence,  or  in  dread  to  be  further 
cast  down.  The  cloud  had  risen  above  all  their  heads  from  the  quarry, 
and  whereas  before  the  sunshine  lighted  it,  now  it  dimmed 
the  sunshine. 

Hawkey's  thoughts  flashed  quickly.  There  was  no  time  to  delay, 
and  he  felt  called  upon  for  some  simple  action  or  gesture.  More  than 
indifference  was  demanded.  His  inspiration  took  a  shape  so  trifling 
that  in  narration  it  is  almost  ridiculous,  though  in  fact  it  was  not  so. 
He  drew  a  tobacco  pipe  and  pouch  from  his  pocket,  loaded  the  pipe, 
lighted  it,  and  cheered  five  hundred  hearts. 

A  wave  of  human  feeling  broke  over  the  people.  They  cheered 
Tom  Hawkey.  Not  a  man  knew  why  he  expressed  himself  in  this 
fashion;  there  existed  no  reason  for  doing  so;  but  the  act  liberated 
breath  and  relaxed  tension;  so  they  did  it  and  meant  it.  But  he 
laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  'Tis  for  me  to  cheer  you  chaps!  "  he  shouted. 

Then  he  joined  them  and  the  men  began  to  pour  down  into  the 
quarry.  Soon  only  the  old  and  women  and  children  were  left  above. 
They  gazed  upon  a  new  world  as  the  dust-clouds  slowly  thinned  away. 
The  "  Grey  Abbey  "  seams  had  vanished  under  a  million  tons  of  earth. 
Perhaps  no  living  eye  would  ever  look  upon  them  again. 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  ONION 
BY  ELIZABETH  ROBINS  PENNELL 

Too  often  the  poet  sees  but  the  tears  that  live  in  an  onion;  not  the 
smiles.  And  yet  the  smiles  are  there,  broad  and  genial,  or  subtle  and 
tender.  "  Rose  among  roots,"  its  very  name  revives  memories  of 
pleasant  feasting;  its  fragrance  is  rich  forecast  of  delights  to  come. 
Without  it,  there  would  be  no  gastronomic  art.  Banish  it  from  the 
kitchen,  and  all  pleasure  of  eating  flies  with  it.  Its  presence  lends 
color  and  enchantment  to  the  most  modest  dish;  its  absence  reduces 
the  rarest  dainty  to  hopeless  insipidity,  and  the  diner  to  despair. 

The  secret  of  good  cooking  lies  in  the  discreet  and  sympathetic 
treatment  of  the  onion.  For  what  culinary  masterpiece  is  there  that 
may  not  be  improved  by  it?  It  gives  vivacity  to  soup,  life  to  sauce; 
it  is  the  "  poetic  soul  "  of  the  salad  bowl;  the  touch  of  romance  in  the 
well-cooked  vegetable.  To  it,  sturdiest  joint  and  lightest  stew,  crisp 
rissole  and  stimulating  stuffing  look  for  inspiration  and  charm — and 
never  are  they  disappointed!  But  woe  betide  the  unwary  woman 
who  would  approach  it  for  sacrilegious  ends.  If  life  holds  nothing 
better  than  the  onion  in  the  right  hand,  it  offers  nothing  sadder  and 
more  degrading  than  the  onion  brutalized.  Wide  is  the  gulf  fixed 
between  the  delicate  sauce  of  a  Prince  de  Soubise,  and  the  coarse, 
unsavory  sausage  and  onion  mess  of  the  Strand.  Let  the  perfection 
of  the  first  be  your  ideal;  the  horrid  coarseness  of  the  latter  shun 
as  you  would  the  devil. 

The  fragrance  of  this  "  wine-scented  "  esculent  not  only  whets 
the  appetite;  it  abounds  in  associations  glad  and  picturesque.  All 
Italy  is  in  the  fine,  penetrating  smell;  and  all  Provence;  and  all 
Spain.  An  onion  or  garlic-scented  atmosphere  hovers  alike  over  the 
narrow  calli  of  Venice,  the  cool  courts  of  Cordova,  and  the  thronged 
amphitheatre  of  Aries.  It  is  the  only  atmosphere  breathed  by  the 
Latin  peoples  of  the  South,  so  that  ever  must  it  suggest  blue  skies  and 
endless  sunshine,  cypress  groves  and  olive  orchards.  For  the  traveler 
it  is  interwoven  with  memories  of  the  golden  canvases  of  Titian,  the 
song  of  Dante,  the  music  of  Mascagni.  The  violet  may  not  work 
a  sweeter  spell,  nor  the  carnation  yield  a  more  intoxicating  perfume. 
230 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  ONION  231 

And  some  men  there  have  been  in  the  past  to  rank  the  onion  as 
a  root  sacred  to  Aphrodite:  food  for  lovers.  To  the  poetry  of  it 
none  but  the  dull  and  brutal  can  long  remain  indifferent. 

Needless,  then,  to  dwell  upon  its  more  prosaic  side:  upon  its 
power  as  a  tonic,  its  value  as  a  medicine.  Medicinal  properties  it 
has,  as  the  drunkard  knows  full  well.  But  why  consider  the  drunkard? 
Leave  him  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  doctor.  Gourmandise,  or  the 
love  of  good  eating,  here  the  one  and  only  concern,  is  opposed  to 
excess.  "  Every  man  who  eats  to  indigestion,  or  makes  himself 
drunk,  runs  the  risk  of  being  erased  from  the  list  of  its  votaries." 

The  onion  is  but  the  name  for  a  large  family,  of  which  shallots, 
garlic,  and  chives  are  chief  and  most  honored  varieties.  Moreover, 
country  and  climate  work  upon  it  changes  many  and  strange.  In 
the  south  it  becomes  larger  and  more  opulent,  like  the  women.  And 
yet,  as  it  increases  in  size,  it  loses  in  strength — who  shall  say  why? 
And  the  loss  truly  is  an  improvement.  Our  own  onion  often  is  strong 
even  unto  rankness.  Therefore,  as  all  good  housewives  understand, 
the  Spanish  species  for  most  purposes  may  be  used  instead,  and  great 
will  be  the  gain  thereby.  Still  further  south,  still  further  east,  you 
will  journey  but  to  find  the  onion  fainter  in  flavor,  until  in  India  it 
seems  but  a  pale  parody  of  its  English  prototype.  And  again,  at 
different  seasons,  very  different  are  its  most  salient  qualities.  In 
great  gladness  of  heart  everyone  must  look  forward  to  the  dainty 
little  spring  onion :  adorable  as  vegetable  cooked  in  good  white  sauce, 
inscrutable  as  guardian  spirit  of  fresh  green  salad,  irreproachable  as 
pickle  in  vinegar  and  mustard. 

Garlic  is  one  of  the  most  gracious  gifts  of  the  gods  to  men — a 
gift,  alas!  too  frequently  abused.  In  the  vegetable  world,  it  has  some- 
thing of  the  value  of  scarlet  among  colors,  of  the  clarionet's  call  in 
music.  Brazen,  and  crude,  and  screaming,  when  dragged  into  undue 
prominence,  it  may  yet  be  made  to  harmonize  divinely  with  fish  and 
fowl,  with  meat,  and  other  greens.  Thrown  wholesale  into  a  salad, 
it  is  odious  and  insupportable;  but  used  to  rub  the  salad  bowl,  and 
then  cast  aside,  its  virtue  may  not  be  exaggerated.  For  it,  as  for 
lovers,  the  season  of  seasons  is  the  happy  springtime.  Its  true  home 
is  Provence.  What  would  be  the  land  of  the  troubadour  and  the 
Felibre  without  the  ail  that  festoons  every  green  grocer's  shop,  that 
adorns  every  dish  at  every  banquet  of  rich  and  poor  alike?  As  well 
rid  bouillabaisse  of  its  saffron  as  of  its  ail;  as  well  forget  the  pomme 


232  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

d' amour  in  the  sauce  for  macaroni,  or  the  rosemary  and  the  thyme  on 
the  spit  with  the  little  birds.  The  verse  of  Roumanille  and  Mistral 
smells  sweet  of  ail;  Tartarin  and  Numa  Roumestan  are  heroes  nour- 
ished upon  it.  It  is  the  very  essence  of  jarandoles  and  ferrades,  of 
bull  fights  and  water  tournaments.  A  pinch  of  ail,  a  coup  de  vin, 
and  then 

Viva  la  joia, 
Fidon  la  tristessat 

And  all  the  while  we,  in  the  cold,  gloomy  north,  eat  garlic  and  are 
hated  for  it  by  friends  and  foes.  Only  in  the  hot  south  can  life  ail— 
inspired  pass  for  a  galejado  or  jest. 

To  the  onion,  the  shallot  is  as  the  sketch  to  the  finished  picture; 
slighter,  it  may  be;  but  often  subtler  and  more  suggestive.  Unrivaled 
in  salads  and  sauces,  it  is  without  compare  in  the  sumptuous  season- 
ing of  the  most  fantastic  viands.  It  does  not  assert  itself  with  the 
fury  and  pertinacity  of  garlic ;  it  does  not  announce  its  presence  with 
the  self-consciousness  of  the  onion.  It  appeals  by  more  refined  de- 
vices, by  gentler  means,  and  is  to  be  prized  accordingly. 

Small  and  brown,  it  is  pleasant  to  look  upon  as  the  humble  wild 
rose  by  the  side  of  the  Gloire  de  Dijon.  And,  though  it  never  attain 
to  the  untempered  voluptuousness  of  the  onion,  it  develops  its  sweet- 
ness and  strength  under  the  hottest  suns  of  summer:  in  July,  August, 
and  September,  does  it  mature;  then  do  its  charms  ripen;  then  may 
it  be  enjoyed  in  full  perfection,  and  satisfy  the  most  riotous  gluttony. 

Shallots  for  summer  by  preference,  but  chives  for  spring:  the 
delicate  chives,  the  long,  slim  leaves,  fair  to  look  upon,  sweet  to  smell, 
sweeter  still  to  eat  in  crisp  green  salad.  The  name  is  a  little  poem; 
the  thing  itself  falls  not  far  short  of  the  divine.  Other  varieties  there 
be,  other  offshoots  of  the  great  onion — mother  of  all ;  none,  however, 
of  greater  repute,  of  wider  possibilities  than  these.  To  know  them 
well  is  to  master  the  fundamental  principles  of  the  art  of  cookery. 
But  this  is  knowledge  given  unto  the  few;  the  many,  no  doubt,  will 
remain  forever  in  the  outer  darkness,  where  the  onion  is  condemned 
to  everlasting  companionship  with  the  sausage — not  altogether  their 
fault,  perhaps.  In  cookery,  as  in  all  else,  too  often  the  blind  do  lead 
the  blind.  But  a  few  years  since  and  a  "  delicate  diner,"  an  authority 
unto  himself  at  least,  produced  upon  the  art  of  dining  a  book,  not 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  ONION  233 

without  reputation.  But  to  turn  to  its  index  is  to  find  not  one 
reference  to  the  onion:  all  the  poetry  gone;  little  but  prose  left!  And 
this  from  an  authority! 

The  onion,  as  a  dish,  is  excellent;  as  seasoning  it  has  still  more 
pleasant  and  commodious  merits.  The  modern  chef  uses  it  chiefly 
to  season;  the  ancient  cordon  bleu  set  his  wits  to  work  to  discover 
spices  and  aromatic  ingredients  wherewith  to  season  it.  Thus,  accord- 
ing to  Philemon, 

If  you  want  an  onion,  just  consider 

What  great  expense  it  takes  to  make  it  good: 

You  must  have  cheese  and  honey,  and  sesame, 

Oil,  leeks,  and  vinegar,  and  assafcetida, 

To  dress  it  up  with ;  for  by  itself  the  onion 

Is  bitter  and  unpleasant  to  the  taste. 

A  pretty  mess,  indeed;  and  who  is  there  brave  enough  to-day  to  test 
it?  Honey  and  onion!  it  suggests  the  ingenious  contrivances  of  the 
mediaeval  kitchen.  The  most  daring  experiment  now  would  be  a  dash 
of  wine,  red  or  white,  a  suspicion  of  mustard,  a  touch  of  tomato  in  the 
sauce  for  onions,  stewed  or  boiled,  baked  or  stuffed.  To  venture  upon 
further  flights  of  fancy  the  average  cook  would  consider  indiscreet, 
though  to  the  genius  all  things  are  possible.  However,  its  talents  for 
giving  savor  and  character  to  other  dishes  is  inexhaustible. 

There  is  no  desire  more  natural  than  that  of  knowledge;  there  is 
no  knowledge  nobler  than  that  of  the  "  gullet-science."  "  The  dis- 
covery of  a  new  dish  does  more  for  the  happiness  of  the  human  race 
than  the  discovery  of  a  planet!  "  What  would  be  Talleyrand's  record 
but  for  that  moment  of  inspiration  when,  into  the  mysteries  of  Par- 
mesan with  soup,  he  initiated  his  countrymen?  To  what  purpose  the 
Crusades,  had  Crusaders  not  seen  and  loved  the  garlic  on  the  plains  of 
Askaltfn,  and  brought  it  home  with  them,  their  one  glorious  trophy. 
To  a  pudding  Richelieu  gave  his  name;  the  Prince  de  Soubise  lent  his 
to  a  sauce,  and  thereby  won  for  it  immortality. 

A  benefactor  to  his  race  indeed  he  was:  worthy  of  a  shrine  in  the 
Temple  of  Humanity.  For,  plucking  the  soul  from  the  onion,  he  laid 
bare  its  hidden  and  sweetest  treasure  to  the  elect.  Scarce  a  sauce  is 
served  that  owes  not  fragrance  and  flavor  to  the  wine-scented  root; 
to  it,  Bearnaise,  Maitre  d'Hotel,  Espagnole,  Italienne,  Bechamel, 


234  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Provengale,  and  who  shall  say  how  many  more?  look  for  the  last 
supreme  touch  that  redeems  them  from  insipid  commonplace.  But 
Sauce  Soubise  is  the  very  idealization  of  the  onion,  its  very  essence; 
at  once  delicate  and  strong;  at  once  as  simple  and  as  perfect  as  all 
great  works  of  art. 

The  plodding  painter  looks  upon  a  nocturne  by  Whistler,  and 
thinks  how  easy,  how  preposterously  easy!  A  touch  here,  a  stroke  there, 
and  the  thing  is  done.  But  let  him  try!  And  so  with  Sauce  Soubise. 
Turn  to  the  first  cookery  book  at  hand,  and  read  the  recipe.  "  Peel 
four  large  onions  and  cut  them  into  thin  slices;  sprinkle  a  little 
pepper  and  salt  upon  them,  together  with  a  small  quantity  of  nutmeg; 
put  them  into  a  saucepan  with  a  slice  of  fresh  butter,  and  steam 
gently  " — let  them  smile,  the  true  artist  would  say — "  till  they  are 
soft."  But  why  go  on  with  elaborate  directions?  Why  describe  the 
exact  quantity  of  flour,  the  size  of  the  potato,  the  proportions  of  milk 
and  cream  to  be  added?  Why  explain  in  detail  the  process  of  rub- 
bing through  a  sieve?  In  telling  or  the  reading  these  matters  seem 
not  above  the  intelligence  of  a  little  child.  But  in  the  actual  making, 
only  the  artist  understands  the  secret  of  perfection,  and  his  under- 
standing is  born  within  him,  not  borrowed  from  dry  statistics  and 
formal  tables.  He  may  safely  be  left  to  vary  his  methods;  he  may 
add  sugar,  he  may  omit  nutmeg;  he  may  fry  the  onions  instead  of 
boiling,  for  love  of  the  tinge  of  brown,  rich  and  somber,  thus  obtained. 
But,  whatever  he  does,  always  with  a  wooden  spoon  will  he  stir  his 
savory  mixture;  always,  as  result,  produce  a  godlike  sauce  which 
the  mutton  cutlets  of  Paradise,  vying  with  Heine's  roast  goose,  will 
offer  of  their  own  accord  at  celestial  banquets.  What  wonder  that 
a  certain  famous  French  count  despised  the  prosaic  politician  who 
had  never  heard  of  cutlets  a  la  Soubise! 

However,  not  alone  in  sauce  can  the  condescending  onion  come  to 
the  aid  of  dull,  substantial  flesh  and  fowl.  Its  virtue,  when  joined  to 
sage  in  stuffing,  who  will  gainsay?  Even  chestnuts,  destined  to  stuff 
to  repletion  the  yawning  turkey,  cannot  afford  to  ignore  the  insinuat- 
ing shallot  or  bolder  garlic;  while  no  meat  comes  into  the  market 
that  will  not  prove  the  better  and  the  sweeter  for  at  least  a  suspicion 
of  onion  or  of  ail.  A  barbarian  truly  is  the  cook  who  flings  a  mass 
of  fried  onions  upon  the  tender  steak,  and  then  thinks  to  offer  you 
a  rare  and  dainty  dish.  Not  with  such  wholesale  brutality  can  the 
ideal  be  attained.  The  French  chef  has  more  tact.  He  will  take  his 


THE  INCOMPARABLE  ONION  235 

gigot  and  sympathetically  prick  it  here  and  there  with  garlic  or  with 
chives,  even  as  it  is  roasting;  and  whoever  has  never  tasted  mutton 
thus  prepared  knows  not  the  sublimest  heights  of  human  happiness. 
Or  else  he  will  make  a  bouquet  garni  of  his  own,  entirely  of  these 
aromatic  roots  and  leaves,  and  fasten  it  in  dainty  fashion  to  the  joint; 
pleasure  is  doubled  when  he  forgets  to  remove  it,  and  the  meat  is 
placed  upon  the  table,  still  bearing  its  delicious  decoration.  Moods 
there  be  that  call  for  stronger  effects:  moods  when  the  blazing  poppy 
field  of  a  Monet  pleases  more  than  the  quiet  moonlight  of  a  Cazin; 
when  Tennyson  is  put  aside  for  Swinburne.  At  such  times,  call  for 
a  shoulder  of  mutton,  well  stuffed  with  onions,  and  still  further  satiate 
your  keen,  vigorous  appetite  with  a  bottle  of  Beaune  or  Pomard.  But 
here,  a  warning;  eat  and  drink  with  at  least  a  pretence  of  moderation. 
Remember  that,  but  for  an  excess  of  shoulder  of  mutton  and  onions, 
Napoleon  might  not  have  been  defeated  at  Leipzig. 

But  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places,  onions  clamor  for  moderation. 
A  salad  of  tomatoes  buried  under  thick  layers  of  this  powerful  esculent 
must  disgust;  gently  sprinkled  with  chopped-up  chives  or  shallots,  it 
enraptures.  Potatoes  a  la  Lyonnaise,  curried  eggs,  Irish  stew,  Gulyas, 
ragout,  alike  demand  restraint  in  their  preparation,  a  sweet  reason- 
ableness in  the  hand  that  distributes  the  onion. 

For  the  delicate  diner,  as  for  the  drunkard,  onion  soup  has  charm. 
It  is  of  the  nature  of  sauce  Soubise,  and  what  mightier  recommenda- 
tion could  be  given  it?  Thus  Dumas,  the  high  priest  of  the  kitchen, 
made  it:  a  dozen  onions — Spanish  by  preference — minced  with  discre- 
tion, fried  in  freshest  of  fresh  butter  until  turned  to  a  fair  golden 
yellow,  he  boiled  in  three  pints  or  so  of  water,  adequately  seasoned 
with  salt  and  pepper;  and  then,  at  the  end  of  twenty  full  minutes,  he 
mixed  with  this  preparation  the  yolks  of  two  or  three  eggs,  and  poured 
the  exquisite  liquid  upon  bread,  cut  and  ready.  At  the  thought  alone 
the  mouth  waters,  the  eye  brightens.  The  adventurous,  now  and  again, 
add  ham  or  rice,  vegetables  or  a  bouquet  garni.  But  this  as  you  will, 
according  to  the  passing  hour's  leisure.  Only  of  one  thing  make 
sure — in  Dumas  confidence  is  ever  to  be  placed  without  doubt 
or  hesitation. 

Dumas7  soup  for  dinner;  but  for  breakfast  the  unrivalled  omelette 
of  Brillat-Savarin.  It  is  made  after  this  fashion:  the  roes  of  two  carp, 
a  piece  of  fresh  tunny,  and  shallots,  well  hashed  and  mixed,  are 
thrown  into  a  saucepan  with  a  lump  of  butter  beyond  reproach,  and 


236  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

whipped  up  till  the  butter  is  melted,  which,  says  the  great  one,  "  con- 
stitutes the  specialty  of  the  omelette  ";  in  the  meantime,  let  some  one 
prepare,  upon  an  oval  dish,  a  mixture  of  butter  and  parsley,  lemon 
juice,  and  chives — not  shallots  here,  let  the  careless  note — the  plate 
to  be  left  waiting  over  hot  embers;  next  beat  up  twelve  eggs,  pour  in 
the  roes  and  tunny,  stir  with  the  zeal  and  sympathy  of  an  artist,  spread 
upon  the  plate  that  waits  so  patiently,  serve  at  once;  and  words  fail 
to  describe  the  ecstasy  that  follows.  Especially,  to  quote  again  so 
eminent  an  authority,  let  the  omelette  "  be  washed  down  with  some 
good  old  wine,  and  you  will  see  wonders,"  undreamed  of  by  hashish 
or  opium  eater. 

When  the  little  delicate  spring  onion  is  smelt  in  the  land,  a  shame, 
indeed,  it  would  be  to  waste  its  tender  virginal  freshness  upon  sauce 
and  soup.  Rather  refrain  from  touching  it  with  sharp  knife  or  cruel 
chopper,  but  in  its  graceful  maiden  form  boil  it,  smother  it  in  rich 
pure  cream,  and  serve  it  on  toast,  to  the  unspeakable  delectation  of 
the  devout.  Life  yields  few  more  precious  moments.  Until  spring 
comes,  however,  you  may  do  worse  than  apply  the  same  treatment  to 
the  older  onion.  In  this  case,  as  pleasure's  crown  of  pleasure,  adorn 
the  surface  with  grated  Gruyere,  and,  like  the  ancient  hero,  you  will 
wish  your  throat  as  long  as  a  crane's  neck,  that  so  you  might  the  longer 
and  more  leisurely  taste  what  you  swallow. 

Onions  farcis  are  beloved  by  the  epicure.  A  nobler  dish  could 
scarce  be  devised.  You  may  make  your  forcemeats  of  what  you  will, 
beef  or  mutton,  fowl  or  game;  you  may,  an  you  please,  add  truffles, 
mushrooms,  olives,  and  capers.  But  know  one  thing:  tasteless  it  will 
prove,  and  lifeless,  unless  bacon  lurk  unseen  somewhere  within  its 
depths.  Ham  will  answer  in  a  way,  but  never  so  well  as  humbler 
bacon.  The  onion  that  lends  itself  most  kindly  to  this  device  is 
the  Spanish. 

One  word  more.  As  the  ite  missa  est  of  the  discourse  let  this 
truth — a  blessing  in  itself — be  spoken.  As  with  meat,  so  with  vege- 
tables, few  are  not  the  better  for  the  friendly  companionship  of  the 
onion,  or  one  of  its  many  offshoots.  Peas,  beans,  tomatoes,  egg-plant 
are  not  indifferent  to  its  blandishments.  If  honor  be  paid  to  the  first 
pig  that  uprooted  a  truffle,  what  of  the  first  man  who  boiled  an  onion? 
And  what  of  the  still  mightier  genius  who  first  used  it  as  seasoning 
for  his  daily  fare?  Every  gourmet  should  rise  and  call  him  blessed. 


SWEET  DAY  OF  REST 
BY  ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL 

I  WALKED  slowly  down  the  "  big  road  "  that  Sunday  afternoon — 
slowly,  as  befitted  the  scene  and  the  season;  for  who  would  hurry 
over  the  path  that  summer  has  prepared  for  the  feet  of  earth's  tired 
pilgrims?  It  was  the  middle  of  June,  and  Nature  lay  a  vision  of 
beauty  in  her  vesture  of  flowers,  leaves,  and  blossoming  grasses. 
The  sandy  road  was  a  pleasant  walking-place;  and  if  one  tired  of 
that,  the  short,  thick  grass  on  either  side  held  a  fairy  path,  fragrant 
with  pennyroyal,  that  most  virtuous  of  herbs.  A  tall  hedge  of  Osage 
orange  bordered  each  side  of  the  road,  shading  the  traveler  from  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  and  furnishing  a  nesting-place  for  numberless  small 
birds  that  twittered  and  chirped  their  joy  in  life  and  love  and  June. 
Occasionally  a  gap  in  the  foliage  revealed  the  placid  beauty  of  corn, 
oats,  and  clover,  stretching  in  broad  expanse  to  the  distant  purple 
woods,  with  here  and  there  a  field  of  the  cloth  of  gold — the  fast- 
ripening  wheat  that  waited  the  hand  of  the  mower.  Not  only  is  it  the 
traveler's  manifest  duty  to  walk  slowly  in  the  midst  of  such  sur- 
roundings, but  he  will  do  well  if  now  and  then  he  sits  down  and  dreams. 

As  I  made  the  turn  in  the  road  and  drew  near  Aunt  Jane's  house, 
I  heard  her  voice,  a  high,  sweet,  quavering  treble,  like  the  notes  of  an 
ancient  harpsichord.  She  was  singing  a  hymn  that  suited  the  day 
and  the  hour: 

"  Welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest, 

That  saw  the  Lord  arise, 
Welcome  to  this  rejoicing  breast, 
And  these  rejoicing  eyes." 

Mingling  with  the  song  I  could  hear  the  creak  of  her  old  splint- 
bottomed  chair  as  she  rocked  gently  to  and  fro.  Song  and  creak 
ceased  at  once  when  she  caught  sight  of  me,  and  before  I  had  opened 
the  gate  she  was  hospitably  placing  another  chair  on  the  porch  and 

smiling  a  welcome. 

From  Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky,  by  Eliza  Calvert  Hall.  Copyright,  1907, 
by  Little,  Brown  &  Co. 

237 


238  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Come  in,  child,  and  set  down,"  she  exclaimed,  moving  the  rocker 
so  that  I  might  have  a  good  view  of  the  bit  of  landscape  that  she 
knew  I  loved  to  look  at. 

"  Pennyroy'l!  Now,  child,  how  did  you  know  I  love  to  smell 
that?  "  She  crushed  the  bunch  in  her  withered  hands,  buried  her 
face  in  it  and  sat  for  a  moment  with  closed  eyes.  "  Lord!  Lord!  " 
she  exclaimed,  with  deep-drawn  breath,  "  if  I  could  jest  tell  how  that 
makes  me  feel !  I  been  smellin'  pennyroy '1  all  my  life,  and  now,  when 
I  get  hold  of  a  piece  of  it,  sometimes  it  makes  me  feel  like  a  little 
child,  and  then  again  it  brings  up  the  time  when  I  was  a  gyirl,  and 
if  I  was  to  keep  on  settin'  here  and  rubbin'  this  pennyroy'l  in  my 
hands,  I  believe  my  whole  life'd  come  back  to  me.  Honeysuckles 
and  pinks  and  roses  ain't  any  sweeter  to  me.  Me  and  old  Uncle 
Harvey  Dean  was  just  alike  about  pennyroy'l.  Many  a  time  I've  seen 
Uncle  Harvey  searchin'  around  in  the  fence  corners  in  the  early  part 
o'  May  to  see  if  the  pennyroy'l  was  up  yet,  and  in  pennyroy'l  time  you 
never  saw  the  old  man  that  he  didn't  have  a  bunch  of  it  somewheres 
about  him.  Aunt  Maria  Dean  used  to  say  there  was  dried  penny- 
roy'l in  every  pocket  of  his  coat,  and  he  used  to  put  a  big  bunch  of  it 
on  his  piller  at  night.  Sundays  it  looked  like  Uncle  Harvey  couldn't 
enjoy  the  preachin'  and  the  singin'  unless  he  had  a  sprig  of  it  in  his 
hand,  and  I  ricollect  once  seein'  him  git  up  durin'  the  first  prayer 
and  tiptoe  out  o*  church  and  come  back  with  a  handful  o'  pennyroy'l 
that  he'd  gethered  across  the  road,  and  he'd  set  and  smell  it  and  look 
as  pleased  as  a  child  with  a  piece  o'  candy." 

"  Piercing  sweet "  the  breath  of  the  crushed  wayside  herb  rose 
on  the  air.  I  had  a  distinct  vision  of  Uncle  Harvey  Dean,  and  won- 
dered if  the  fields  of  asphodel  might  not  yield  him  some  small  harvest 
of  his  much-loved  earthly  plant,  or  if  he  might  not  be  drawn  earth- 
ward in  "  pennyroy'l  time." 

"  I  was  jest  settin'  here  restin',"  resumed  Aunt  Jane,  "  and  thinkin' 
about  Milly  Amos.  I  reckon  you  heard  me  singin'  fit  to  scare  the 
crows  as  you  come  along.  We  used  to  call  that  Milly  Amos'  hymn, 
and  I  never  can  hear  it  without  thinkin'  o'  Milly." 

"  Why  was  it  Milly  Amos'  hymn?  "  I  asked. 

Aunt  Jane  laughed  blithely. 

"  La,  child!  "  she  said,  "  don't  you  ever  get  tired  o'  my  yarns? 
Here  it  is  Sunday,  and  you  tryin'  to  git  me  started  talking  and  when 
I  git  started  you  know  there  ain't  no  tellin'  when  I'll  stop.  Come 


SWEET  DAY  OF  REST  239 

on  and  le*s  look  at  the  gyarden;  that's  more  fittin'  for  Sunday  evemV 
than  tellin'  yarns." 

So  together  we  went  into  the  garden  and  marveled  happily  over 
the  growth  of  the  tasseling  corn,  the  extraordinarily  long  runners  on 
the  young  strawberry  plants,  the  size  of  the  green  tomatoes,  and  all 
the  rest  of  the  miracles  that  sunshine  and  rain  had  wrought  since  my 
last  visit. 

The  first  man  and  the  first  woman  were  gardeners,  and  there  is 
something  wrong  in  any  descendant  of  theirs  who  does  not  love  a  gar- 
den. He  is  lacking  in  a  primal  instinct.  But  Aunt  Jane  was  in  this 
respect  a  true  daughter  of  Eve,  a  faithful  coworker  with  the  sun- 
shine, the  winds,  the  rain,  and  all  other  forces  of  nature. 

"  What  do  you  reckon  folks'd  do,"  she  inquired,  "  if  it  wasn't  for 
plantin'-time  and  growin'-time  and  harvest-time?  I've  heard  folks 
say  they  was  tired  o>  livin',  but  as  long  as  there's  a  gyarden  to  be 
planted  and  looked  after  there's  somethin'  to  live  for.  And  unless 
there's  gyardens  in  heaven  I'm  pretty  certain  I  ain't  goin*  to  be  sat- 
isfied there." 

But  the  charms  of  the  garden  could  not  divert  me  from  the  main 
theme,  and  when  we  were  seated  again  on  the  front  porch  I  returned 
to  Milly  Amos  and  her  hymn. 

"  You  know,"  I  said,  "  that  there  isn't  any  more  harm  in  talking 
about  a  thing  on  Sunday  than  there  is  in  thinking  about  it."  And 
Aunt  Jane  yielded  to  the  force  of  my  logic. 

"  I  reckon  you've  heard  me  tell  many  a  time  about  our  choir," 
she  began,  smoothing  out  her  black  silk  apron  with  fingers  that  evi- 
dently felt  the  need  of  knitting  or  some  other  form  of  familiar  work. 
"  John  Petty  was  the  bass,  Sam  Crawford  the  tenor,  my  Jane  was  the 
alto,  and  Milly  Amos  sung  soprano.  I  reckon  Milly  might  'a'  been 
called  the  leader  of  the  choir;  she  was  the  sort  o'  woman  that  generally 
leads  wherever  she  happens  to  be,  and  she  had  the  strongest,  finest 
voice  in  the  whole  congregation.  All  the  parts  appeared  to  depend 
on  her,  and  it  seemed  like  her  voice  jest  carried  the  rest  o1  the  voices 
along  like  one  big  river  that  takes  up  all  the  little  rivers  and  carries 
'em  down  to  the  ocean.  I  used  to  think  about  the  difference  between 
her  voice  and  Miss  Penelope's.  Milly's  was  jest  as  clear  and  true 
as  Miss  Penelope's,  and  four  or  five  times  as  strong,  but  I'd  ruther 
hear  one  note  o'  Miss  Penelope's  than  a  whole  song  o'  Milly's. 
Milly's  was  jest  a  voice,  and  Miss  Penelope's  was  a  voice  and  some- 


240  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

thin'  else  besides,  but  what  that  somethin'  was  I  never  could  say. 
However,  Milly  was  the  very  one  for  a  choir;  she  kind  o'  kept  'em 
all  together  and  led  'em  along,  and  we  was  mighty  proud  of  our  choir 
in  them  days.  We  always  had  a  voluntary  after  we  got  our  new  organ, 
and  I  used  to  look  forward  to  Sunday  on  account  o'  that  voluntary. 
It  used  to  sound  so  pretty  to  hear  'em  begin  singin'  when  everything 
was  still  and  solemn,  and  I  can  never  forgit  the  hymns  they  sung 
then — Sam  and  Milly  and  John  and  my  Jane. 

"  But  there  was  one  Sunday  when  Milly  didn't  sing.  Her  and 
Sam  come  in  late,  and  I  knew  the  minute  I  set  eyes  on  Milly  that 
somethin'  was  the  matter.  Generally  she  was  smilin'  and  bowin'  to 
people  all  around,  but  this  time  she  walked  in  and  set  the  children 
down,  and  then  set  down  herself  without  even  lookin'  at  anybody, 
to  say  nothin'  o'  smilin'  or  speakin'.  Well,  when  half-past  ten  come, 
my  Jane  began  to  play  '  Welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest,'  and  all  of  'em 
begun  singin'  except  Milly.  She  set  there  with  her  mouth  tight  shut, 
and  let  the  bass  and  tenor  and  alto  have  it  all  their  own  way.  I 
thought  maybe  she  was  out  o'  breath  from  comin'  in  late  and  in  a 
hurry,  and  I  looked  for  her  to  jine  in,  but  she  jest  set  there,  lookin7 
straight  ahead  of  her;  and  when  Sam  passed  her  a  hymn-book,  she 
took  hold  of  it  and  shut  it  up  and  let  it  drop  in  her  lap.  And  there 
was  the  tenor  and  the  bass  and  the  alto  doin'  their  best,  and  every- 
body laughin',  or  tryin'  to  keep  from  laughin'.  I  reckon  if  Uncle 
Jim  Matthews  had  'a'  been  there,  he'd  'a'  took  Milly's  place  and  helped 
'em  out,  but  Uncle  Jim'd  been  in  his  grave  more'n  two  years.  Sam 
looked  like  he'd  go  through  the  floor,  he  was.  so  mortified,  and  he 
kept  lookin'  around  at  Milly  as  much  as  to  say,  '  Why  don't  you 
sing?  Please  sing,  Milly,'  but  Milly  never  opened  her  mouth. 

"I'd  about  concluded  Milly  must  have  the  sore  throat  or 
somethin'  like  that,  but  when  the  first  hymn  was  give  out,  Milly 
started  in  and  sung  as  loud  as  anybody;  and  when  the  doxology  come 
around,  Milly  was  on  hand  again,  and  everybody  was  settin'  there 
wonderin'  why  on  earth  Milly  hadn't  sung  in  the  voluntary.  When 
church  was  out,  I  heard  Sam  invitin'  Brother  Hendricks  to  go  home 
and  take  dinner  with  him — Brother  Hendricks'd  preached  for  us  that 
day — and  they  all  drove  off  together  before  I'd  had  time  to  speak 
to  Milly. 

"  But  that  week,  when  the  Mite  Society  met,  Milly  was  there 
bright  and  early;  and  when  we'd  all  got  fairly  started  with  our 


SWEET  DAY  OF  REST  241 

sewin',  and  everybody  was  in  a  good  humor,  Sally  Ann  says,  says 
she:  '  Milly,  I  want  to  know  why  you  didn't  sing  in  that  voluntary 
Sunday.  I  reckon  everybody  here  wants  to  know/  says  she,  t  but 
nobody  but  me's  got  the  courage  to  ask  you.' 

"  And  Milly's  face  got  as  red  as  a  beet,  and  she  burst  out  laughin', 
and  says  she:  '  I  declare,  I'm  ashamed  to  tell  you  all.  I  reckon  Satan 
himself  must  V  been  in  me  last  Sunday.  You  know,'  says  she, 
1  there's  some  days  when  everything  goes  wrong  with  a  woman,  and 
last  Sunday  was  one  o'  them  days.  I  got  up  early,'  says  she,  l  and 
dressed  the  children  and  fed  my  chickens  and  strained  the  milk  and 
washed  up  the  milk  things  and  got  breakfast  and  washed  the  dishes 
and  cleaned  up  the  house  and  gethered  the  vegetables  for  dinner 
and  washed  the  children's  hands  and  faces  and  put  their  Sunday 
clothes  on  'em,  and  jest  as  I  was  startin'  to  git  myself  ready  for 
church,'  says  she,  '  I  happened  to  think  that  I  hadn't  skimmed  the 
milk  for  the  next  day's  churnin'.  So  I  went  down  to  the  spring- 
house  and  did  the  skimmin',  and  jest  as  I  picked  up  the  cream-jar 
to  put  it  up  on  that  shelf  Sam  built  for  me,  my  foot  slipped,'  says 
she,  '  and  down  I  come  and  skinned  my  elbow  on  the  rock  step,  and 
broke  the  jar  all  to  smash  and  spilled  the  cream  all  over  creation, 
and  there  I  was — four  pounds  o'  butter  and  a  fifty-cent  jar  gone, 
and  my  springhouse  in  such  a  mess  that  I  ain't  through  cleanin'  it 
yet,  and  my  right  arm  as  stiff  as  a  poker  ever  since/ 

"  We  all  had  to  laugh  at  the  way  Milly  told  it;  and  Sally  Ann 
says,  c  Well,  that  was  enough  to  make  a  saint  mad.'  '  Yes,'  says 
Milly,  '  and  you  all  know  I'm  far  from  bein'  a  saint.  However,' 
says  she,  '  I  picked  up  the  pieces  and  washed  up  the  worst  o'  the 
cream,  and  then  I  went  to  the  house  to  git  myself  ready  for  church, 
and  before  I  could  git  there,  I  heard  Sam  hollerin'  for  me  to  come 
and  sew  a  button  on  his  shirt;  one  of  'em  had  come  off  while  he  was 
tryin'  to  button  it.  And  when  I  got  out  my  work-basket,  the  children 
had  been  playin'  with  it,  and  there  wasn't  a  needle  in  it,  and  my 
thimble  was  gone,  and  I  had  to  hunt  up  the  apron  I  was  makin' 
for  little  Sam  and  git  a  needle  off  that,  and  I  run  the  needle  into  my 
finger,  not  havin'  any  thimble,  and  got  a  blood  spot  on  the  bosom 
o'  the  shirt.  Then,'  says  she,  '  before  I  could  git  my  dress  over  my 
head,  here  come  little  Sam  with  his  clothes  all  dirty  where  he'd  fell 
down  iri  the  mud,  and  there  I  had  him  to  dress  again,  and  that  made 
me  madder  still;  and  then,  when  I  finally  got  out  to  the  wagon/ 
16 


242  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

says  shej '  I  rubbed  my  clean  dress  against  the  wheel,  and  that  made 
me  mad  again;  and  the  nearer  we  got  to  the  church,  the  madder  I 
was;  and  now,'  says  she,  c  do  you  reckon  after  all  I'd  been  through 
that  mornin',  and  dinner  ahead  of  me  to  git,  and  the  children  to  look 
after  all  the  evenin',  do  you  reckon  that  I  felt  like  settin'  up  there  and 
singin'  "  Welcome,  sweet  day  of  rest  "?  '  Says  she, '  I  ain't  seen  any 
day  o'  rest  since  the  day  I  married  Sam,  and  I  don't  expect  to  see 
any  till  the  day  I  die;  and  if  Parson  Page  wants  that  hymn  sung, 
let  him  git  up  a  choir  of  old  maids  and  old  bachelors,  for  they're  the 
only  people  that  ever  see  any  rest  Sunday  or  any  other  day.' 

"  We  all  laughed,  and  said  we  didn't  blame  Milly  a  bit  for  not 
singin'  that  hymn ;  and  then  Milly  said :  '  I  reckon  I  might  as  well 
tell  you  all  the  whole  story.  By  the  time  church  was  over,'  says  she, 
'  I'd  kind  of  cooled  off,  but  when  I  heard  Sam  askin'  Brother  Hen- 
dricks  to  go  home  and  take  dinner  with  him,  that  made  me  mad 
again;  for  I  knew  that  meant  a  big  dinner  for  me  to  cook,  and  I 
made  up  my  mind  then  and  there  that  I  wouldn't  cook  a  blessed 
thing,  company  or  no  company.  Sam'd  killed  chickens  the  night 
before,'  says  she,  '  and  they  was  all  dressed  and  ready,  down  in  the 
springhouse;  and  the  vegetables  was  right  there  on  the  back  porch, 
but  I  never  touched  'em,'  says  she.  *  I  happened  to  have  some  cold 
ham  and  cold  mutton  on  hand — not  much  of  either  one — and  I  sliced 
'em  and  put  the  ham  in  one  end  o'  the  big  meat-dish  and  the  mutton 
in  the  other,  with  a  big  bare  place  between,  so's  everybody  could  see 
that  there  wasn't  enough  of  either  one  to  go  'round;  and  then,'  says 
she,  '  I  sliced  up  a  loaf  o'  my  salt-risin'  bread  and  got  out  a  bowl  o' 
honey  and  a  dish  o'  damson  preserves,  and  then  I  went  out  on  the 
porch  and  told  Sam  that  dinner  was  ready/ 

"  I  never  shall  forgit  how  we  all  laughed  when  Milly  was  tellin' 
it.  '  You  know,  Aunt  Jane,'  says  she,  '  how  quick  a  man  gits  up 
when  you  tell  him  dinner's  ready.  Well,  Sam  he  jumps  up,  and  says 
he,  "  Why,  you're  mighty  smart  to-day,  Milly;  I  don't  believe  there's 
another  woman  in  the  county  that  could  git  a  Sunday  dinner  this 
quick."  And  says  he,  "  Walk  out,  Brother  Hendricks,  walk 
right  out."  ' " 

Here  Aunt  Jane  paused  to  laugh  again  at  the  long-past  scene 
that  her  words  called  up. 

"  Milly  used  to  say  that  Sam's  face  changed  quicker'n  a  flash  o' 
lightnin'  when  he  saw  the  table,  and  he  dropped  down  in  his  cheer 


SWEET  DAY  OF  REST  243 

and  forgot  to  ask  Brother  Hendricks  to  say  grace.  '  Why,  Milly,' 
says  he,  '  where's  the  dinner?  Where's  them  chickens  I  killed  last 
night  and  the  potatoes  and  corn  and  butter-beans?  '  And  Milly 
jest  looked  him  square  in  the  face,  and  says  she,  '  The  chickens  are 
in  the  springhouse  and  the  vegetables  out  on  the  back  porch,  and,' 
says  she,  '  do  you  suppose  I'm  goin'  to  cook  a  hot  dinner  for  you  all 
on  this  "  sweet  day  o'  rest  "?  '  " 

Aunt  Jane  stopped  again  to  laugh. 

"  That  wasn't  a  polite  way  for  anybody  to  talk  at  their  own 
table,"  she  resumed,  "  and  some  of  us  asked  Milly  what  Brother 
Hendricks  said.  And  Milly's  face  got  as  red  as  a  beet  again,  and 
she  says:  *  Why,  he  behaved  so  nice,  he  made  me  feel  right  ashamed 
o'  myself  for  actin'  so  mean.  He  jest  reached  over  and  helped  himself 
to  everything  he  could  reach,  and  says  he,  "  This  dinner  may  not 
suit  you,  Brother  Amos,  but  it's  plenty  good  for  me,  and  jest  the 
kind  I'm  used  to  at  home."  Says  he,  "  I'd  rather  eat  a  cold  dinner 
any  time  than  have  a  woman  toilin'  over  a  hot  stove  for  me."  :'  And 
when  he  said  that,  Milly  up  and  told  him  why  it  was  she  didn't 
feel  like  gittin'  a  hot  dinner,  and  why  she  didn't  sing  in  the  volun- 
tary; and  when  she'd  got  through,  he  says,  t  Well,  Sister  Amos,  if 
I'd  been  through  all  you  have  this  mornin'  and  then  had  to  git  up 
and  give  out  such  a  hymn  as  "  Welcome,  sweet  day  o'  rest,"  I  believe 
I'd  be  mad  enough  to  pitch  the  hymn-book  and  the  Bible  at  the 
deacons  and  the  elders.'  And  then  he  turns  around  to  Sam,  and 
says  he,  l  Did  you'  ever  think,  Brother  Amos,  that  there  ain't  a 
pleasure  men  enjoy  that  women  don't  have  to  suffer  for  it?  '  And 
Milly  said  that  made  her  feel  meaner'n  ever;  and  when  supper-time 
come,  she  lit  the  fire  and  got  the  best  hot  supper  she  could — fried 
chicken  and  waffles  and  hot  soda-biscuits  and  coffee  and  goodness 
knows  what  else.  Now  wasn't  that  jest  like  a  woman,  to  give  in 
after  she'd  had  her  own  way  for  a  while  and  could  'a'  kept  on  bavin' 
it?  Abram  used  to  say  that  women  and  runaway  horses  was  jest 
alike:  the  best  way  to  manage  'em  both  was  to  give  'em  the  rein 
and  let  'em  go  till  they  got  tired,  and  they'll  always  stop  before  they 
do  any  mischief.  Milly  said  that  supper  tickled  Sam  pretty  near 
to  death.  Sam  was  always  mighty  proud  o'  Milly's  cookin'. 

"  So  that's  how  we  come  to  call  that  hymn  Milly  Amos5  hymn, 
and  as  long  as  Milly  lived  folks'd  look  at  her  and  laugh  whenever 
the  preacher  give  out  '  Welcome,  sweet  day  o'  rest.'  " 


244  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

The  story  was  over.  Aunt  Jane  folded  her  hands,  and  we  both 
surrendered  ourselves  to  happy  silence.  All  the  faint,  sweet  sounds 
that  break  the  stillness  of  a  Sunday  in  the  country  came  to  our  ears 
in  gentle  symphony — the  lisp  of  the  leaves,  the  chirp  of  young 
chickens  lost  in  the  mazes  of  billowy  grass,  and  the  rustle  of  the 
silver  poplar  that  turned  into  a  mass  of  molten  silver  whenever 
the  breeze  touched  it. 

"  WThen  you've  lived  as  long  as  I  have,  child,"  said  Aunt  Jane 
presently,  "  you'll  feel  that  you've  lived  in  two  worlds.  A  short 
life  don't  see  many  changes,  but  in  eighty  years  you  can  see  old 
things  passin'  away  and  new  ones  comin'  on  to  take  their  place, 
and  when  I  look  back  at  the  way  Sunday  used  to  be  kept  and  the 
way  it's  kept  now,  it's  jest  like  bein'  in  another  world.  I  hear  folks 
talkin'  about  how  wicked  the  world's  growin'  and  wishin'  they  could 
go  back  to  the  old  times,  but  it  looks  like  to  me  there's  jest  as  much 
kindness  and  goodness  in  folks  nowadays  as  there  was  when  I  was 
young;  and  as  for  keepin'  Sunday,  why,  I've  noticed  all  my  life  that 
the  folks  that's  strictest  about  that  ain't  always  the  best  Christians, 
and  I  reckon  there's  been  more  foolishness  preached  and  talked 
about  keepin'  the  Sabbath  day  holy  than  about  any  other  one  thing. 

"  I  ricollect  some  fifty-odd  years  ago  the  town  folks  got  to  keepin' 
Sunday  mighty  strict.  They  hadn't  had  a  preacher  for  a  long  time, 
and  the  church'd  been  takin'  things  easy,  and  finally  they  got  a 
new  preacher  from  down  in  Tennessee,  and  the  first  thing  he  did 
was  to  draw  the  lines  around  'em  close  and  tight  about  keepin'  Sun- 
day. Some  o'  the  members  had  been  in  the  habit  o'  havin'  their 
wood  chopped  on  Sunday.  Well,  as  soon  as  the  new  preacher  come, 
he  said  that  Sunday  wood-choppin'  had  to  cease  amongst  his  church- 
members  or  he'd  have  'em  up  before  the  session.  I  ricollect  old 
Judge  Morgan  swore  he'd  have  his  wood  chopped  any  day  that 
suited  him.  And  he  had  a  load  o'  wood  carried  down  cellar,  and  the 
colored  man'  chopped  all  day  long  down  in  the  cellar,  and  nobody 
ever  would  'a'  found  it  out,  but  pretty  soon  they  got  up  a  big 
revival  that  lasted  three  months  and  spread  'way  out  into  the  country, 
and  bless  your  life,  old  Judge  Morgan  was  one  o'  the  first  to  be 
converted;  and  when  he  give  in  his  experience,  he  told  about  the 
wood-choppin',  and  how  he  hoped  to  be  forgiven  for  breakin'  the 
Sabbath  day. 

"  Well,  of  course,  us  people  out  in  the  country  wouldn't  be  out- 


SWEET  DAY  OF  REST  245 

done  by  the  town  folks,  so  Parson  Page  got  up  and  preached  on  the 
Fourth  Commandment  and  all  about  that  pore  man  that  was  stoned  to 
death  for  pickin'  up  a  few  sticks  on  the  seventh  day.  And  Sam  Amos, 
he  says  after  meetin'  broke,  says  he,  t  It's  my  opinion  that  that  man 
was  a  industrious,  enterprisin'  feller  that  was  probably  pickin'  up 
kindlin'-wood  to  make  his  wife  a  fire,  and,'  says  he,  '  if  they  wanted 
to  stone  anybody  to  death  they  better  'a'  picked  out  some  lazy, 
triflin'  feller  that  didn't  have  energy  enough  to  work  Sunday  or 
any  other  day.'  Sam  always  would  have  his  say,  and  no  thin'  pleased 
him  better'n  to  talk  back  to  the  preachers  and  git  the  better  of  'em  in 
a  argument.  I  ricollect  us  women  talked  that  sermon  over  at  the 
Mite  Society,  and  Maria  Petty  says:  *  I  don't  know  but  what  it's  a 
wrong  thing  to  say,  but  it  looks  to  me  like  that  Commandment  wasn't 
intended  for  anybody  but  them  Israelites.  It  was  mighty  easy  for 
them  to  keep  the  Sabbath  day  holy,  but,'  says  she,  l  the  Lord  don't 
rain  down  manna  in  my  yard.  And,'  says  she, '  men  can  stop  plowin' 
and  plantin'  on  Sunday,  but  they  don't  stop  eatin',  and  as  long  as 
men  have  to  eat  on  Sunday,  women '11  have  to  work.' 

"  And  Sally  Ann,  she  spoke  up,  and  says  she,  '  That's  so;  and 
these  very  preachers  that  talk  so  much  about  keepin'  the  Sabbath 
day  holy,  they'll  walk  down  out  o'  their  pulpits  and  set  down  at  some 
woman's  table  and  eat  fried  chicken  and  hot  biscuits  and  corn  bread 
and  five  or  six  kinds  of  vegetables,  and  never  think  about  the  work 
it  took  to  git  the  dinner,  to  say  nothin'  o'  the  dish-washin'  to 
come  after.' 

"There's  one  thing,  child,  that  I  never  told  to  anybody  but  Abram; 
I  reckon  it  was  wicked,  and  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  own  it,  but  " — 
here  her  voice  fell  to  a  confessional  key — "  I  never  did  like  Sunday 
till  I  begun  to  git  old.  And  the  way  Sunday  used  to  be  kept,  it  looks 
to  me  like  nobody  could  'a'  been  expected  to  like  it  but  old  folks 
and  lazy  folks.  You  see,  I  never  was  one  o'  these  folks  that's  born 
tired.  I  loved  to  work.  I  never  had  need  of  any  more  rest  than  I 
got  every  night  when  I  slept,  and  I  woke  up  every  mornin'  ready 
for  the  day's  work.  I  hear  folks  prayin'  for  rest  and  wishin'  for  rest, 
but,  honey,  all  my  prayer  was,  '  Lord,  give  me  work,  and  strength 
enough  to  do  it.'  And  when  a  person  looks  at  all  the  things  there  is 
to  be  done  in  this  world,  they  won't  feel  like  restin'  when  they 
ain't  tired.' 

"  Abram  used  to  say  he  believed  I  tried  to  make  work  for  myself 


246  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Sunday  and  every  other  day;  and  I  ricollect  I  used  to  be  right  glad 
when  any  o'  the  neighbors'd  git  sick  on  Sunday  and  send  for  me 
to  help  nurse  'em.  Nursing  the  sick  was  a  work  o'  necessity,  and 
mercy,  too.  And  then,  child,  the  Lord  don't  ever  rest.  The  Bible 
says  He  rested  on  the  seventh  day  when  He  got  through  makin'  the 
world,  and  I  reckon  that  was  rest  enough  for  Him.  For,  jest  look; 
everything  goes  on  Sundays  jest  the  same  as  week-days.  The  grass 
grows,  and  the  sun  shines,  and  the  wind  blows,  and  He  does  it  all." 

" '  For  still  the  Lord  is  Lord  of  might ; 

In  deeds,  in  deeds  He*  takes  delight/  " 
I  said. 

"That's  it,"  said  Aunt  Jane,  delightedly.  "There  ain't  any 
religion  in  restin'  unless  you're  tired,  and  work's  jest  as  holy  in  His 
sight  as  rest." 

Our  faces  were  turned  toward  the  western  sky,  where  the  sun 
was  sinking  behind  the  amethystine  hills.  The  swallows  were  darting 
and  twittering  over  our  heads,  a  somber  flock  of  blackbirds  rose  from 
a  huge  oak  tree  in  the  meadow  across  the  road,  and  darkened  the 
sky  for  a  moment  in  their  flight  to  the  cedars  that  were  their  nightly 
resting  place.  Gradually  the  mist  changed  from  amethyst  to  rose, 
and  the  poorest  object  shared  in  the  transfiguration  of  the 
sunset  hour. 

Is  it  unmeaning  chance  that  set  man's  days,  his  dusty,  common 
days,  between  the  glories  of  the  rising  and  the  setting  sun,  and  his 
life,  his  dusty,  common  life,  between  the  two  solemnities  of  birth  and 
death?  Bounded  by  the  splendors  of  the  morning  and  evening 
skies,  what  glory  of  thought  and  deed  should  each  day  hold!  What 
celestial  dreams  and  vitalizing  sleep  should  fill  our  nights!  For  why 
should  day  be  more  magnificent  than  life? 

As  we  watched  in  understanding  silence,  the  enchantment  slowly 
faded.  The  day  of  rest  was  over,  a  night  of  rest  was  at  hand;  and 
in  the  shadowy  hour  between  the  two  hovered  the  benediction  of  that 
peace  which  "  passeth  all  understanding." 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES 
BY  MARGARET  LYNN 

MALDY  was  away  for  the  afternoon.  That  was  a  very  rare  thing, 
for  Maldy  clung  to  the  place  as  if  it  were  a  citadel  left  to  her  guard- 
ing. She  held  all  visiting  in  contempt — partly  because  of  her  own 
long  experience  with  visitors — and  as  for  her  scanty  shopping,  she 
summarily  relegated  that  to  my  mother,  her  only  requirements  in 
garments  being  that  they  should  wear  well  and  should  look  just 
like  her  last  ones.  But  at  one  point  my  mother  demurred.  She 
would  not  buy  Maldy's  shoes — so  she  said  after  a  few  experiments — 
and  have  her  hobbling  around  in  toe-pinching  or  heel-rubbing  foot- 
leather.  So  twice  a  year,  after  Maldy's  needs  had  for  many  days 
been  pointed  out  to  her,  she,  with  many  postponements  and  great 
final  reluctance,  went  to  town  with  my  mother.  This  was  one  of 
those  occasions. 

She  had  looked  back  many  times  before  she  was  out  of  sight,  and 
we,  out  of  sheer  kindliness  to  her,  had  maintained  a  virtuous  state 
of  conspicuous  idleness  on  the  front  porch  as  long  as  she  could  see 
us.  It  would  be  a  comforting  vision  for  her  to  carry  with  her  to  the 
unacceptable  experiences  of  the  afternoon. 

With  Maldy  out  of  sight  and  a  change  of  atmosphere,  we  im- 
mediately relaxed.  Meditation  fell  upon  us.  We  were  not  really 
casting  about  for  anything  lawless  to  do ;  but  still  so  rare  an  occasion 
as  this  deserved  some  unwonted  employment.  It  would  be  unap- 
preciative  and  tame  not  to  use  it  appropriately.  Uneasiness  sat 
even  on  Henry,  while  we  all  tacitly  and  inactively  awaited  a 
worthy  inspiration. 

Our  meditation  was  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  Ivy  Hixon, 
the  daughter  of  one  of  the  renters,  coming  on  one  of  her  borrowing 
errands.  She  now  carried  a  black-cracked  teacup  in  her  hand. 

"  Mom  wanted  to  know  would  your  ma  borrow  her  some  saler- 
atus,"  she  delivered  herself. 

Questioning  revealed  that  she  wanted  some  baking  soda.  I  arose 
with  as  good  an  imitation  of  my  mother's  air  as  I  could  manage, 
and  led  the  way  into  the  house.  Mary  followed  us,  and  finally  John. 

247 


248  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Henry,  who  found  no  delight  in  the  freckled  Ivy,  and  had  in  fact 
compared  her  appearance  to  that  of  a  grass-burr,  sent  an  indifferent 
glance  after  us  and  then  took  himself  off  to  the  stables.  For  Henry 
the  company  of  horses  never  staled. 

In  the  big  storeroom  of  the  kitchen — a  mere  pantry  could  not 
hold  stores  for  a  household  of  our  numbers — we  found  the  soda,  and 
with  as  many  manners  as  I  could  take  on  I  gave  Ivy  a  liberal  helping. 

Ivy  lingered  to  look  around.  "  You've  got  lots  of  things  to  eat," 
she  said. 

That  had  never  seemed  to  me  a  cause  for  pride,  but  I  tried  to 
look  affluent.  However,  I  thought  it  better  to  edge  Ivy  back  into  the 
kitchen.  My  mother  never  talked  to  the  renter  women  about  the 
things  we  had.  But  even  in  the  kitchen  Ivy  found  much  to  comment 
on  and  linger  over.  I  was  uneasy  at  first;  my  mother  was  full  of 
kindly  attentions  to  the  renter  families,  but  the  children  never  came 
to  the  house  much.  However,  that  prohibition  appeared  to  belong 
to  Maldy's  administration,  and  to  allow  Ivy  to  remain  for  a  while 
seemed  to  be  a  privilege  of  the  day.  Soon  we  were  all  talking  freely 
and  enjoying  Ivy's  admiration  of  the  number  and  size  of  our  kitchen 
utensils.  She  applauded  the  kitchen  stove  especially.  Maldy's  stove 
was  no  doubt  a  thing  to  admire,  although  at  that  time,  not  having 
the  housekeeping  point  of  view,  we  did  not  realize  its  praiseworthiness. 

A  fire  had  been  left,  in  Maldy's  hasty  after-dinner  departure. 
Even  its  heat,  as  we  assisted  Ivy  to  admire  it,  seemed  of  a  peculiarly 
efficient  sort.  Assuming  technical  knowledge,  we  displayed  dampers 
and  drafts  and  oven  depths.  Ivy  looked  appreciatively  into  the  still 
warm  oven. 

"  Mom  made  a  cake  onst,"  she  said,  "  when  Uncle  Jake's 
folks  come." 

It  was  not  for  us  to  speak  of  cakes. 

"  Can  you  cook?  "  she  asked  me. 

"  Some,"  I  answered  conservatively.  I  had  once  mixed  up  corn- 
bread  under  Maldy's  impatient  direction. 

"  I  can  fry  side-meat  and  potatoes  and  make  saleratus  biscuits." 

We  had  learned  that  renters  lived  chiefly  on  hot  biscuit;  when 
I  add  that  they  called  bread  "  %^/-bread  "  always,  I  have  sufficiently 
indicated  their  social  standing  in  our  eyes. 

"  We  could  make  a  cake  right  now,"  said  Ivy.    She  spoke  as  one 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  249 

suggesting  an  enterprise,  but  a  merely  natural  one  to  undertake. 
I  was  silent,  as  of  course  Mary  was  also. 

Said  John  in  a  moment,  "  Let's  make  a  cake."  John  had  no 
culinary  self-respect  to  preserve.  Anyway,  he  was  thinking  less  of 
the  adventure  than  of  the  desirable  result. 

"  You  put  eggs  in  it,  and  milk  and  lots  of  sugar  and  flour  and 
butter  if  you  got  it  and  lard  if  you  ain't,"  said  Ivy  glibly.  "I  bet 
you  folks  got  all  them  things." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered  hastily.    "  We've  got  everything." 

That  seemed  to  be  acquiescence,  and  we  stood  somehow  com- 
mitted to  the  undertaking.  Anyhow,  adventure,  the  more  lawless 
the  better,  had  been  calling  to  us. 

However,  Ivy  Hixon  was  not  going  to  dictate  to  us  in  our  own 
kitchen.  Having  made  the  suggestion,  her  officiousness  expanded 
and  threatened  to  take  control  of  us  all.  I  prepared  to  assert  myself. 

"  You  beat  the  eggs  first,"  said  Ivy;  "  Mom  took  three." 

While  I  considered,  Mary,  the  methodical,  climbed  to  a  shelf  and 
brought  down  a  cook-book.  The  possession  of  a  cook-book  was  merely 
a  concession  to  convention  on  Maldy's  part,  for  she  was  never  seen  to 
use  it  and  had  been  heard  to  speak  contemptuously  of  it.  Mary's  lit- 
tle forefinger  traveled  down  the  index  column  to  cakes. 

"  There's  a  good  many,"  she  said.  "  What  kind  do  we  want? 
Here's  Brown  Stone  Front  and  Nancy  Hanks  and  Five  Egg  and 
Good  White  Cake  and  Jelly  Cake  and  Chocolate  Layer  and  Marble 
and  Fairy  Lily " 

"  Let's  have  that,"  I  said. 

Mary  turned  to  it.  "  Whites  of  seven  eggs,  cup  and  a  half  of 
sugar,"  she  began. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  the  yolks?  "  I  interrupted.  I  had  sup- 
posed that  an  egg  was  a  unit  in  cooking. 

Mary  laboriously  followed  through  the  list  of  items  and  figures. 
"  It  don't  say,"  she  said. 

"  Mom  put  'em  in,"  said  Ivy.  "  Mom's  cake  was  yallow.  It 
wasn't  no  lily  cake,"  she  finished  contemptuously.  With  the  advent 
of  the  cook-book  authority  seemed  likely  to  slip  from  her.  "  Mom 
put  three  whole  eggs  in  her'n." 

"  Let's  make  a  big  cake,"  said  John. 

"  Read  the  five-egg  one,"  I  dictated. 

"  Five  eggs  beaten  separately "  began  Mary. 


250  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"That's  awful  funny,"  said  Ivy.  We  all  looked  dubious, 
in  fact. 

Mary  finished  out  the  proportions  of  the  cake,  conventional 
enough  I  suppose.  The  final  statement  that  the  recipe  would  make 
a  very  large  cake  was  decisive  for  every  one. 

"  All  right,"  I  said  briskly.  I  really  was  not,  for  my  part,  eager 
for  the  result,  but  the  situation  began  to  please  me.  "  John,  you 
fix  up  the  fire,  and  don't  take  Maldy's  cobs.  Mary,  we've  got  to  wash 
our  hands  first."  That  was  sheer  virtue;  a  look  at  Ivy's  had  sug- 
gested it.  Ivy  joined  us  in  common  ablution,  and,  I  think,  saw  the 
complexion  of  her  hands  for  the  first  time  in  many  a  day. 

"  We  must  clean  our  finger-nails,"  added  Mary  gently,  to  my 
surprise.  Ivy  plainly  thought  that  unnecessary,  but  followed  suit, 
matching  the  novel  enterprise  from  her  own  experience,  however, 
with,  "  Mom  digs  out  the  baby's  nails  sometimes." 

But,  that  concession  to  elegance  over,  Ivy  quickly  resumed  her 
place  again.  I  turned  from  the  towel  to  find  her  setting  out  a  flat 
crock  for  a  mixing  bowl,  a  row  of  five  teacups,  and  a  fork. 

"  What  are  those  for?  "  I  asked. 

"  To  beat  the  eggs  in.    The  book  says  so. 

I  had  never  seen  a  process  like  that,  and  was  doubtful;  but  still 
many  an  operation  went  on  in  the  kitchen  on  which  I  did  not 
trouble  to  cast  my  eye.  I  was  not  in  a  position  to  contradict,  but  I 
tried  at  least  to  awe  Ivy  by  reaching  down  an  egg-beater  instead  of 
the  fork.  Ivy  looked  at  it  a  moment,  tested  its  movement  and, 
unimpressed,  accepted  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  She  hung  over  the 
cook-book,  business  in  her  mien,  energy  radiating  from  her  elbows. 
Nature  had  dealt  but  meagerly  with  Ivy.  Her  hair  was  sandy — sandy 
to  the  touch,  I  fancied — her  face  was  sandy,  her  hands  looked  sandy. 
Her  dress,  to  my  embarrassment,  was  an  old  one  of  my  own;  I  tried 
to  act  unconscious  of  the  fact.  It  hung  loosely  from  her  round 
shoulders  and — although  she  was  nearly  as  old  as  I — was  far  too 
long  for  her ;  but  as  she  was  barefooted,  that  was  a  good  thing.  Her 
scratched  feet  looked  sandy,  too.  Her  hair  was  tied  with  a  white 
string,  which  was  braided  in  for  two  or  three  inches  from  the  end. 
I  had  suggested  that  means  of  security  to  Ellen  when  she  braided 
my  hair,  but  she  did  not  accept  the  suggestion,  although  it  would 
doubtless  have  saved  me  many  a  reproof.  Whether  because  of  this 
device  or  not,  Ivy's  scrawny  little  braid  turned  sharply  outward  from 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  251 

her  meager  shoulders  and,  with  her  quick,  jerky  movements,  bobbed 
about  like  a  question  mark  incessantly  questioning.  Before  we  got 
through  with  our  enterprise  that  curled-up  arc  of  hair  seemed  to 
me  to  be  making  the  cake,  it  was  so  active,  so  ubiquitous. 

Ivy  turned  briskly  from  the  cook-book  and  disappeared  into  the 
store-room.  She  was  back  almost  instantly. 

"  Say,  there  ain't  but  six  eggs,  and  if  we'd  take  them  they'd 
know  for  sure.  You  go  out  and  get  some  more.  I  bet  the's  a  plenty." 

Dignity  compelled  me  to  pass  the  order  on  to  John.  Assuming 
initiative,  I  proceeded  to  get  out  the  other  ingredients,  but  always 
with  Ivy  at  my  elbow,  making  additional  suggestions.  "  When  you're 
getting  get  a  plenty.  That's  what  Aunt  Em  says.  But  Mom  says 
when  you  ain't  got  any  money — Say,  ain't  you  folks  got  lots  of 
sugar!  Say,  you  could  have  cake  every  day." 

Her  eyes  saw  every  article  in  the  store-room,  and  her  tongue 
commented  without  trammel.  Between  times  she  issued  orders  with 
freedom  and  decision.  I  was  always  just  going  to,  but  Ivy  steadily 
forestalled  me.  It  seemed  as  if,  whenever  I  turned  to  do  a  thing, 
Ivy's  arc  of  braid  was  always  bobbing  just  ahead  of  me.  Information 
which  I  imparted  to  her  became  her  own  as  completely  as  if  it  had 
never  been  mine.  Within  a  few  minutes  she  knew  all  the  household 
equipment  as  well  as  Mary  and  I  put  together.  It  need  not  be 
supposed  that  I  acquiesced  readily  in  this  system  of  precedence, 
but  when  there  is  no  crevice  in  the  front  of  authority  where  one  can 
interpose  opposition,  and  when  one  is  hampered  by  hospitality  be- 
sides, where  is  one  going  to  begin  to  assert  her  independence? 

The  mixing  spoon  was  hardly  ever  out  of  Ivy's  hands.  She 
stirred  and  beat  and  sifted  and  stirred,  in  a  housewifely  ecstasy  of 
creation.  The  words  "  a  plenty  "  rolled  lusciously  on  her  tongue 
when  she  caught  sight  of  our  household  stores.  Only  steady  self- 
control  kept  her  from  altering  the  proportion  of  ingredients  when 
abundance  of  butter  or  sugar  came  into  view.  It  seemed  a  pity 
not  to  use  more  when  there  was  "  a  plenty."  Her  imagination  reached 
forward,  and  she  hinted  at  something  else  to  be  done  when  the  cake 
was  off  our  hands.  But  this  time  even  John  did  not  rise  to 
the  suggestion. 

I  should  not  have  supposed  that  one  person  could  find  sufficient 
orders  for  three.  I  found  myself  obeying  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment. 
Mary  was  kept  busy  washing  dishes,  because,  as  Ivy  said,  the  elders 


252  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

would  not  want  to  find  the  kitchen  "  all  gaumed  up  when  they  come 
back."  It  did  seem  wise  to  remove  our  traces.  The  eggs  were 
beaten  separately — that  is,  individually — and  the  process  took  some 
time.  John  thought  it  unnecessary,  but  Ivy  overruled  him  with  the 
words  of  the  book.  For  one  of  comparatively  limited  acquaintance 
with  literature,  Ivy  had  remarkable  reverence  for  the  printed  word. 
She  seemed  to  take  pride  in  having  cooking  thus  connected  with  her 
stinted  accomplishment  of  reading. 

At  last  everything  was  in,  stirred  and  beaten,  and  beaten  and 
stirred.  Everybody,  even  John,  had  been  allowed  to  take  a  hand 
at  this;  but  it  was  Ivy's  freckled  little  arms  which  gave  the  last 
loving  strokes.  At  this  moment  Henry  strolled  in. 

We  had  got  so  used  to  Ivy  that  we  had  forgotten  to  miss  Henry. 
But  John,  going  out  to  find  another  egg  to  replace  one  which  some- 
body dropped  on  the  floor — we  regretted  it,  but  Ivy  said  there  was 
plenty  more — had  mentioned  to  Henry  that  an  enterprise  was  afoot 
within.  After  a  little  time  for  consideration,  Henry  decided  to  enter. 
He  came  loafing  in,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  a  general  air  of 
mature  leisure  about  him.  I  had  just  got  out  a  cake-pan  and  Ivy 
had  taken  it  from  me  and  was  buttering  it  with  flying  whisks  of  her 
fingers.  She  was  putting  a  good  deal  of  butter  on  it. 

Henry  eyed  the  process  a  moment  with  remotely  critical  air. 
I  think  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  noticed  the  operation  at  all,  but 
it  was  for  him  to  suggest  improvement,  now  that  he  was  here. 

"  You're  putting  too  much  butter  on  that,"  he  said  briefly,  with- 
out introduction. 

Ivy  paused  and  looked  at  him,  every  freckle  darting  out  sur- 
prise. She  rubbed  her  nose  with  the  back  of  her  hand  and  eyed  him 
above  her  buttery  fingers. 

"  You  never  made  no  cake,"  she  answered. 

"  Cake  shouldn't  taste  of  butter,"  said  Henry,  speaking  calmly 
but  succinctly,  as  an  expert  authority.  "  It'll  make  it  fall," 
he  added. 

Ivy,  determined  not  to  be  impressed,  continued  to  eye  him  as  she 
ran  her  fingers  round  and  round  the  pan.  Henry  took  one  hand 
from  its  pocket,  lifted  the  mixing-spoon  and  let  the  batter  drip 
from  it  while  he  scrutinized  the  compound  intelligently. 

"  It's  too  thin,"  he  delivered  judgment. 

"  It's  just  like  the  book  says,  I  guess,"  returned  Ivy  forcibly. 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  253 

Ivy  was  really  misnamed.  We  were  all  responsible  for  the  cake,  but 
Ivy  seemed  to  be  its  natural  defender. 

His  attention  called  to  the  cook-book,  Henry  turned  to  peruse 
it.  He  wore  the  air  of  a  passing  authority  who  had  no  personal 
interest  in  pointing  out  error.  He  did  not  keep  us  waiting  long, 
however,  before  he  spoke  again. 

"  Lots  of  cake  have  raisins  in  them.    Let's  put  raisins  in  this." 

Let  us!  Even  we  who  knew  Henry  well  had  never  seen  him 
adopt  an  exploit  with  greater  promptness.  But  then  we  were  used  to 
Henry;  many  a  time  had  he  gathered  us  to  his  banner  as  sheep  to 
a  cause.  Ivy  alone  found  him  a  novelty. 

"  The  book  never  said  nothin'  about  puttin'  in  no  raisins,"  she 
said.  "  This  ain't  that  kind  of  cake." 

With  the  air  of  one  who  was  bloodied  but  spiritually  unbowed, 
she  stirred  the  cake  again  and  bade  me  look  at  the  fire.  A  few 
minutes  before  she  would  have  given  the  order  to  John.  Whether 
she  acknowledged  it  or  not,  masculinity  seemed  to  be  in  a  stage 
of  readjustment. 

Mary,  returning  from  obeying  Henry's  order,  reported  that  there 
were  no  raisins  in  store.  It  was  embarrassing  to  us  to  admit  that 
there  was  anything  we  did  not  have.  Henry  considered.  Was  there 
a  substitute?  He  detained  the  putting  of  the  cake  into  the  oven, 
with  a  glance  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  while  he  meditated. 

"  Raisins  are  nothing  but  grapes,"  mused  John,  "  but  grapes 
aren't  ripe  yet." 

Henry  turned  his  eye  on  the  window.  The  rest  of  us  indicated 
the  stages  of  our  mental  processes  by  discussion.  Henry  merely 
announced  his  results. 

"  We'll  get  some  cherries,"  he  said. 

Ivy,  who  had  been  impatiently  heeling  and  toeing  beside  the 
kitchen  table,  burst  forth.  "  I  never  heard  of  no  cherries  in  no  cake. 
I  bet  they'd  spoil  it." 

"  They'll  make  it  thicker,"  said  Henry,  conceding  a  reply  to  her 
evident  depth  of  feeling. 

Ivy  continued  to  stand  by  the  table,  smoothing  and  patting  the 
surface  of  her  cherished  cake,  while  Henry  marshaled  the  rest  of 
us  out  to  the  Early  Richmond  cherry-trees.  As  a  precaution  he 
added  her  to  the  party,  although  she  declared  that  the  cake  would 
fall  while  we  were  gone. 


254  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

It  took  only  a  few  minutes,  though,  for  the  five  of  us  to  gather 
and  seed  a  quart  or  more  of  cherries.  Henry  dumped  the  lot,  reek- 
ing juice,  into  the  batter  and  stirred  them  in. 

"  It's  thinner'n  ever,"  wailed  Ivy,  "  and  it  looks  like  all  git  out." 

Henry  scrutinized  it  carefully.  "  It  isn't  any  thinner,  but  it's 
too  thin  yet.  We'll  get  some  more  cherries." 

This  time  we  got  two  quarts.    Henry  stirred  them  in. 

Another  wail  broke  from  Ivy.  "  It's  thinner'n  ever,"  she  almost 
sobbed.  "  You've  done  and  spoiled  it." 

"  You  didn't  put  flour  enough  into  this,"  said  Henry.  "  That's 
what's  the  matter." 

"  We  put  all  the  book  said,"  I  answered.  Between  grief  and 
wrath  Ivy  was  almost  beyond  speech. 

"  Well,  it  takes  more  of  some  kinds  than  others.  I  guess  this 
is  a  thin  kind." 

We  put  in  three  more  cups  of  flour,  while  Ivy  stood  in  the  back- 
ground, a  mute  angry  spirit  of  protest.  When  the  flour  was  all  in 
we  each  inserted — not  the  first  time — a  finger  at  the  edge  of  the 
batter  and  tasted  our  compound.  It  tasted  queer  and  floury.  Ivy 
frankly  made  a  face. 

"  You  didn't  put  enough  sugar  in  this,"  said  Henry.  "  Cakes  take 
a  lot  of  sugar." 

"  We  put  in  all  the  book  said,"  we  answered  once  more. 

"  It  ain't  sweet  enough,"  said  Henry,  tasting  again.  "  We'll  put 
in  more  sugar." 

We  put  in  two  more  cups  of  sugar.  The  batter  was  now  almost 
running  over  the  crock,  and  needed  very  careful  stirring.  The 
cake-pan  which  had  been  ready  before,  was  now  out  of  the  question. 
Henry  found  a  small  dishpan,  and  bade  me  grease  it.  Mary  washed 
the  other  and  put  it  away.  John  made  up  the  fire  once  more,  and 
the  cake  went  into  the  oven.  We  thought  it  polite  to  offer  Ivy  the 
crock  to  scrape,  but  she  briefly  declined  it.  Half  an  hour  before  each  of 
us  had  an  eye  on  that  crock,  but  now  no  one  cared  for  it.  Mary 
washed  it  and  put  it  away.  She  also  washed  up  the  table  and  every- 
thing else,  and  as  far  as  we  could  see  there  was  nothing  to  tell  the 
tale  on  us  except  the  cake  in  the  oven. 

At  the  end  of  ten  minutes,  as  the  cake  did  not  seem  to  be  near 
baked,  we  settled  down  in  various  ways.  No  further  enterprise  seemed 
desirable.  We  really  wished  that  Ivy  would  go  home,  but,  as  she 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  255 

did  not  seem  inclined  to  do  so,  I  read  her  All  Baba.  She  interrupted 
occasionally  to  say,  "  I  bet  that  ain't  ever  happened."  Her  attitude 
surprised  me;  I  did  not  mind  its  apparent  discourtesy,  but  I  did 
not  see  why  any  one  should  demand  fact  in  a  narrative. 

Any  occupation  we  had  on  hand  was  interrupted  frequently  while 
we  looked  into  the  oven.  Mary  took  a  doll  and  went  about  some 
serious  maternal  business.  The  rest  of  us  collectively  looked  into  the 
oven  every  three  minutes.  If  that  cake  had  ever  intended  to  do  itself 
credit,  it  lost  its  chance  through  the  embarrassment  of  our  steady 
watching.  As  it  was,  the  baking  process  was  curious.  We  watched 
eagerly  for  the  moment  of  rising,  but  it  never  came.  It  did  once 
break  its  temporary  shell  to  spout  up  on  the  middle  with  a  small 
geyser-like  formation,  distinguished  from  the  hopeless  depression  of 
the  rest  of»the  surface.  The  substance  of  the  whole  was  of  such  a 
consistency  that  it  would  have  taken  a  chemical  analysis  to  tell 
whether  it  was  baked  or  not.  Like  other  Benjamin  Wests,  we 
nearly  decimated  the  newest  broom  for  straws — each  of  us  used  sev- 
eral each  time  we  opened  the  oven  door — but  every  time  we  withdrew 
them,  gummy  and  unpalatable. 

Time  was  wearing  rapidly  away.  They  might  be  home  at  any 
moment.  Ivy  declined  any  further  tales  and  crouched  steadfastly 
by  the  oven  door. 

At  last  the  cake  began  to  recede  from  the  sides  of  the  pan, 
and  Henry,  returning  from  a  brief  visit  to  his  pony,  announced  that 
it  was  all  drying  up  and  must  be  taken  out  immediately.  Anticipa- 
tion swelled  among  us.  We  forgot  to  watch  the  drive.  Eagerness 
secured  a  burnt  hand  for  each  of  us.  But  at  last  the  cake  was 
transferred  from  the  oven  to  the  kitchen  table.  One  last  problem 
arose.  How  did  one  take  a  cake  from  the  pan?  The  natural  thing 
seemed  to  be  to  take  it  by  the  little  knob  in  the  center  and  lift  it  out. 
That  proved  unsuccessful.  Henry  and  Ivy  each  had  a  theory;  it 
is  needless  to  say  that  Henry's  was  to  be  tried  first,  even  over 
Ivy's  final  protest. 

"  Now  you  all  stand  back,"  Henry  was  saying,  as  he  selected 
a  knife,  "  and  Ill- 
Voices  and  wheels  were  heard  outside.  We  looked  at  each  other 
in  consternation — consternation  quite  out  of  proportion  to  the 
offence.  Panic  fell  upon  us.  Henry  snatched  up  the  cake,  pan  and 
all,  and  with  his  usual  quickness  of  resource  made  for  the  regions  of 


256  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  kitchen  garden,  which  lay  near.  It  was  on  the  other  side  of 
the  house  from  the  drive,  and  was  screened  from  it  by  some  lilac 
bushes.  At  the  very  nearest  place  to  the  house  a  bit  of  soft,  fine- 
delved  ground  lay  waiting  a  later  sowing  of  something,  turnips 
probably.  Henry  seized  a  hoe  which  was  conveniently  at  hand,  made 
a  hole  in  the  soft  earth,  and  in  an  instant  that  cake,  with  all  its 
promise  unfulfilled  and  its  suspense  still  unanswered,  was  in  its 
tomb.  The  dishpan  was  thrown  to  a  convenient  place  under  the  lilac 
bushes  and,  the  whole  affair  cleared  up,  we  turned  back  to  welcome 
the  homecomers  with  as  interested  an  air  as  if  we  had  spent  the 
afternoon  merely  waiting  for  their  return. 

Ivy  had  stood  looking  on  at  the  interment  as  if  she  were  the 
embodiment  of  all  possible  mourners.  Tragedy  sat  on  her  brow, 
and  grief  trembled  on  her  lips.  The  moment  anticipated  all  the 
afternoon  was  snatched  from  her  as  the  child  of  her  hands  went  under 
the  soil.  Even  her  braid  had  uncurled  itself  and  hung  straight  and 
pendulous  as  any  braid.  As  we  turned  away,  I  had  a  glimpse  of 
pursed-up  lips  and  hard-winking  eyes,  and  I  suspected  a  tear  fell 
on  the  unworthy  grave  of  that  cherry-cake,  the  first  and  last  of 
its  kind. 

For  us  it  was  all  over.  We  should  have  liked  to  see  how  that  cake 
tasted;  but  Maldy  always  got  an  unusually  good  supper  when  she 
came  back  from  town,  as  if  to  show  her  scorn  of  all  she  had  seen  in 
her  absence.  Anyway,  we  had  had  doubts  about  the  cake  from  the 
first.  I  had  never  believed  that  we  could  make  a  cake,  even  when 
we  were  doing  it. 

As  we  went  into  the  house  again,  everybody  eagerly  assisting  in 
carrying  in  the  packages — with  surreptitious  squeezes  and  fingerings 
to  help  surmises  as  to  contents — I  saw  Ivy  darting  homeward  through 
the  orchard.  Her  braid  hopped  up  and  down  on  her  shoulders,  and 
her  slim  skirt  wrapped  and  flapped  about  her  thin  legs.  The  impetu- 
osity of  her  movement  suggested  more  than  mere  hurry,  I  thought, 
remembering  certain  impassioned  moments  of  my  own. 

The  evening  went  off  very  well,  considering  everything.  After 
my  mother  had  been  away  for  a  whole  afternoon,  we  always  had  a 
very  good  time  in  the  evening,  and  were  allowed  to  sit  up  a  little  later 
than  usual.  And  yet  I  went  to  bed  with  a  sense  of  something  im- 
pending. Certain  matters  had  already  called  for  remark.  Henry 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  257 

explained  that  we  had  the  fire  on  in  order  to  have  it  ready  when 
they  came  home.  Such  thoughtfulness  should  have  brought  out 
approbation,  but  Maldy  made  no  comment.  As  for  the  cup  of  soda — 
well,  Ivy  Hixon  had  come  for  it,  but  why  she  went  away  without  it 
no  one  knew.  Maldy  was  no  questioner,  I  will  say  that  for  her. 
But  she  went  about  the  kitchen  that  evening  with  a  roving  eye,  which 
promised  no  good  for  us.  Our  sin,  which  had  seemed  mild  in  the 
beginning,  hardly  equal  to  the  occasion  in  fact,  began  to  assume  the 
appalling  proportions  of  a  crime.  I  went  to  bed  meditating  confession. 

Mary  lay  still  for  a  while  in  her  usual  little  fashion,  and  then 
went  off  to  sleep.  Our  room  was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  I 
could  hear  Maldy  moving  about  below,  setting  all  ready  for  the 
morning.  Who  knew  what  she  might  be  discovering?  Had  we  put 
away  the  flour-sifter  and  closed  the  sugar-bin  and  restored  the  bak- 
ing-powder to  its  place?  I  followed  her  movements  in  my  imagina- 
tion, picturing  what  she  was  looking  at.  Her  steps  seemed  to  grow 
more  heavy  and  portentous.  What  was  she  seeing  now? 

Even  when  everything  grew  quiet  underneath,  I  still  listened  for 
signs  to  reassure  or  terrorize,  I  sat  up  in  bed  embracing  my  knees, 
while  my  strained  attention  was  fixed  below.  But  everything  was 
so  silent  down  there  that  my  alertness  finally  relaxed  and  my  eyes 
wandered  to  the  moon-lighted  spaces  below  my  window.  Even  the 
corner  of  the  kitchen  garden,  which  I  could  see,  had  a  sort  of  agree- 
ableness,  with  the  moonlight  and  the  moon-made  shadows  upon  it. 
I  mused  a  while,  watching  the  glorified  lawn,  and  finally,  with  elbows 
on  knees  and  chin  on  hands,  began  to  make  up  a  story  about  what 
I  was  going  to  do  when  I  was  twenty. 

Suddenly  I  sprang  from  the  bed  and  ran  to  the  window.  Out 
in  that  garden  corner  some  one  was  moving.  I  couldn't  see  very 
plainly  at  first,  but  undoubtedly  there  was  a  moving  figure  there. 
How  had  Maldy  ever  discovered?  But  as  I  looked  I  saw  that  it 
was  Ivy's.  She  was  groping  around  for  the  hoe  we  had  used  in  the 
afternoon.  I  was  indignant.  Of  course,  somebody  would  see  her — 
and  then!  She  did  not  find  the  hoe,  and  stood  for  a  moment  unde- 
cided. Then  she  dropped  to  her  knees  and  began  to  dig  away  at  the 
soft  earth  with  her  hands.  I  condemned  her  entirely.  She  had  got 
us  into  this,  and  now  she  was  going  to  get  us  caught.  And  digging 
up  cake  out  of  the  ground,  too!  I  felt  contempt. 
17 


258  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

A  step  sounded  heavily  on  the  porch  below.  Maldy  always 
walked  with  a  curious  unbending  tread.  She  stalked  straight  out 
by  the  path  and  around  by  the  lilac  bushes.  Now  Ivy  Hixon  had 
done  it!  She,  too,  heard  by  this  time,  and  sat  back  on  her  heels  to 
listen.  Thus  she  was  when  Maldy  rounded  the  lilacs  and  came 
upon  her.  Then  she  jumped  up  with  a  cry.  I  was  almost  sorry 
for  her  then,  for  I  knew  Maldy's  summary  handling  of  the  renter 
children.  Still,  Ivy  had  brought  this  on  herself. 

Maldy  questioned  abruptly  and  gruffly,  standing  with  her  hands 
on  her  hips  and  her  elbows  squared.  Ivy  answered,  her  speech  all 
running  together,  until  it  ended  in  a  high  little  wail,  with  a  tragic 
gesture  toward  the  ground  at  her  feet.  Maldy  questioned  further, 
her  attitude  tentative.  Ivy  answered  again,  her  voice  each  time 
running  up  to  its  pathetic  little  cry  at  the  end,  and  her  hands 
making  their  tragic  movement.  This  was  not  the  effective  Ivy  of 
the  afternoon.  I  could  imagine  her  ending  with,  "  And  I  never  got 
none  of  it!  "  To  my  relief,  however,  Maldy  seemed  to  be  relaxing. 
She  spoke  briefly  but  with  reserve. 

Presently  she  turned  toward  the  house,  Ivy  following  her,  evi- 
dently at  her  bidding.  Ivy  waited  on  this  side  of  the  lilac  bushes,  not 
far  from  my  window,  while  Maldy  went  into  the  kitchen  to  get  the 
cracked  cup  and  the  soda,  I  supposed.  I  really  was  relieved,  though 
not  on  Ivy's  account  alone. 

Maldy  returned,  her  bearing  still  amicable.  But  what  was  this 
she  was  bringing?  The  cup  of  soda,  to  be  sure,  and  with  it  the 
remnant  of  the  fresh  sponge  cake  she  had  beaten  up  for  supper— 
and  a  piece  of  fruit  cake.  I  nearly  fell  out  of  the  window  as  it 
came  to  view.  Fruit  cake  was  Maldy's  choicest  and  best-concealed 
treasure.  I  suspected  that  even  my  mother  asked  her  permission 
to  use  it.  It  was  the  topmost  crown  of  our  rarest  social  occasions. 
Maldy  seemed  always  to  have  some,  but  we  never  caught  her  making 
it.  When  I  have  said  that  we  never  even  asked  her  for  it,  I  have 
said  all. 

She  was  giving  it  to  Ivy.  She  said,  "  Don't  you  eat  this  to-night, 
but  you  put  it  away  and  have  it  some  time."  Then  she  relapsed  into 
her  renter-children  tone,  "  Now  you  better  go  right  along  home. 
Don't  be  hanging  around  here."  Ivy  went,  cutting  across  the  lawn 
and  down  through  the  shadowy  orchard  spaces.  Her  disposing  of  the 
sponge  cake  as  she  went  did  not  seem  to  interefere  with  her  speed. 


IVY  OF  THE  NEGATIVES  259 

The  next  morning  Henry  himself  slipped  the  dishpan  down  to 
the  yards  and  washed  it  in  the  watering-trough.  Unfortunately 
Maldy  was  in  the  kitchen  when  he  cautiously  brought  it  in,  and  her 
eye  required  explanation  of  him. 

"  Why,  I  took  this  out  yesterday  to  pick  cherries  in,"  he  began. 

"  Huuf,"  said  Maldy,  and  turned  her  back  on  him.  She  gave 
the  dishpan  a  proper  washing  with  soap  and  hot  water  and  hung  it 
up  in  its  place  without  another  word. 


HYMN  TO  THE  DAIRY  MAIDS  ON  BEACON  STREET 
BY  CHRISTOPHER  MORLEY 

Sweetly  solemn  see  them  stand, 
Spinning  churns  on  either  hand, 
Neatly  capped  and  aproned  white, 
Airy  fairy  dairy  sight, 
Jersey  priestesses  they  seem 
Miracling  milk  to  cream. 

Cream  solidifies  to  cheese 

By  Pasteural  mysteries, 

And  they  give,  within  their  shrine, 

Their  communion  in  kine, 

Incantations  pure  they  mutter 
O'er  the  golden  minted  butter 
And  (no  layman  hand  can  pen  it) 
See  them  gloat  above  their  rennet. 

By  the  hillside  window-pane 
Rugged  teamsters  draw  the  rein, 
Doff  the  battered  hat  and  bow 
To  these  acolytes  of  cow. 

Genuflect,  ye  passerby! 
Muse  upon  their  ritual  high — 
Milk  to  cream,  yea,  cream  to  cheese 
White  lacteal  mysteries! 
Let  adorers  sing  the  word 
Of  the  smoothly  flowing  curd. 
Yea,  we  sing  with  bells  and  fife 
This  is  the  whey,  this  is  the  life. 

From  Songs  for  a  Little  House,  by  Christopher  Morley.     Copyright, 
1917,  George  H.  Doran  Co.,  Publishers. 


260 


PORTEFAIX.       BY    CONSTANTIN    MEUNIER 


ELLEN  HANGING  CLOTHES 

BY  LlZETTE  WOODWORTH   REESE 

The  maid  is  out  in  the  soft  April  light, 
Our  store  of  linen  hanging  up  to  dry; 
On  clump  of  box,  on  the  small  grass  there  lie 
Bits  of  thin  lace,  and  broidery  blossom-white. 
And  something  makes  tall  Ellen — air  or  look — 
Or  else  but  that  most  ancient,  simple  thing, 
Hanging  the  clothes  upon  a  day  in  spring, 
Like  to  a  Greek  girl  cut  out  an  old  book. 
The  wet  white  flaps;  a  tune  just  come  to  mind, 
The  sound  brims  the  still  rooms.    Our  flags  are  out. 
Blue  by  the  box,  blue  by  the  kitchen  stair; 
Betwixt  the  twain  she  trips  across  the  wind, 
Her  warm  hair  blown  all  cloudy-wise  about, 
Slim  as  the  flags,  and  every  whit  as  fair. 


Reprinted  from  Contemporary  Verse,  by  permission  of  the  author. 


261 


THE  NAVAJO  BLANKET 
BY  CHARLES  FLETCHER  LUMMIS 

ONE  of  the  striking  curiosities  of  one  of  our  Strange  Corners  is 
the  Navajo  Blanket.  There  is  no  other  blanket  like  it.  It  is  re- 
markable that  half-naked  savages  in  a  remote  wilderness  which  is 
almost  a  desert,  unwashed  nomads  who  never  live  in  a  house,  weave 
a  handsomer,  more  durable  and  more  valuable  blanket  than  is  turned 
out  by  the  costly  and  intricate  looms  of  Europe  and  America;  but  it  is 
true.  The  covers  which  shelter  us  nights  are  very  poor  affairs,  artisti- 
cally and  commercially,  compared  to  those  superb  fabrics  woven  by 
Navajo  women  in  the  rudest  caricature  of  a  loom.  Blanket-weaving 
is  the  one  domestic  industry  of  this  great  tribe  of  twenty  thousand 
souls,  whose  temporary  brush  shelters  dot  the  northwestern  moun- 
tains of  New  Mexico  and  the  eastern  ranges  of  Arizona;  but  they 
do  it  well.  The  work  of  the  men  is  stock-raising — they  have  a  mil- 
lion and  a  half  of  sheep,  a  hundred  thousand  cattle,  and  several 
hundred  thousand  beautiful  ponies — and  they  also  plant  a  very  little 
corn.  The  women  have  no  housework  to  do,  because  they  have  no 
houses — a  very  different  social  condition  from  that  of  their  neigh- 
bors, the  cleanly,  industrious,  farm-tending,  home-loving  Pueblos. 
They  make  hardly  any  pottery,  buying  what  they  need  from  the 
expert  Pueblos,  in  exchange  for  their  own  matchless  blankets,  which 
the  Pueblos  no  longer  weave. 

The  Navajo  country  is  a  very  lonely  and  not  altogether  safe  one, 
for  these  Indians  are  jealous  of  intruders;  but  it  is  full  of  interest, 
and  there  is  much  to  be  seen  in  safe  proximity  to  the  railroad — 
particularly  near  Manuelito,  the  last  station  in  New  Mexico. 

It  fairly  takes  one's  breath  away  to  ride  up  one  of  these  barren 
mesas,  among  the  twisted  pifions,  and  find  a  ragged  Indian  woman 
squatted  before  a  loom  made  of  three  sticks,  a  rope,  and  a  stone, 
weaving  a  blanket  of  great  beauty  in  design  and  color,  and  with  the 
durability  of  iron.  But  that  is  what  one  may  see  a  thousand  times  in 
this  strange  territory  by  taking  the  necessary  trouble,  though  it  is  a 

Taken   from  Lummis*  Some  Strange   Corners  of   Our  Country,  by 
permission  of  The  Century  Co. 
262 


THE  NAVAJO  BLANKET  263 

sight  that  few  white  people  do  see.  The  Navajo  is  a  seeker  of  se- 
clusion, and  instinctively  pitches  his  camp  in  an  out-of-the-way  loca- 
tion. You  may  pass  within  fifty  yards  of  his  hogan  and  never  suspect 
the  proximity  of  human  life,  unless  your  attention  is  called  by  one  of 
his  wolfish  dogs,  which  are  very  fond  of  strangers — and  strangers 
raw.  If  you  can  induce  the  dog  to  save  you  for  supper,  and  will 
follow  his  snarling  retreat,  this  is  what  you  may  see: 

Under  the  shelter  of  a  juniper,  a  semicircular  wind-break  built 
breast-high  of  brush,  and  about  fifteen  feet  from  point  to  point;  a 
tiny  heap  of  smoldering  coals;  a  few  greasy  sheepskins  and  blankets 
lying  against  the  brush;  perhaps  the  jerked  meat  of  a  sheep  hanging 
to  a  branch,  and  near  it  pendent  a  few  silver  ornaments;  a  bottle- 
necked  basket,  pitched  without  and  full  of  cold  water;  an  old  Spencer 
carbine  or  a  Winchester  leaning  against  the  "wall";  a  few  bare- 
legged youngsters  of  immeasurable  mirth,  but  diffident  toward 
strangers;  mayhap  the  lord  of  the  castle  and  a  male  companion  or 
two  playing  cunquian  with  solemn  faces  and  Mexican  cards;  the 
dogs,  the  lariated  ponies — and  the  lady  of  the  house  at  her  re- 
markable loom. 

For  simplicity  of  design,  the  Navajo  "  loom  " — if  it  can  be  dig- 
nified by  such  a  title — is  unique.  Occasionally  the  frame  is  made 
by  setting  two  posts  firmly  in  the  ground  about  six  feet  apart,  and 
lashing  cross-pieces  at  top  and  bottom.  So  complicated  an  affair  as 
this,  however,  is  not  usual.  Ordinarily  a  straight  pole  is  lashed 
between  two  trees,  at  a  height  of  five  or  six  feet  from  the  ground. 
A  strong  rawhide  rope,  wound  loosely  round  and  round  this,  serves 
to  suspend  the  "  supplementary  yarn-beam,"  a  straight  bar  of  wood 
five  or  six  feet  long.  To  this  in  turn  is  attached  a  smaller  bar, 
around  which  the  upper  ends  of  the  stout  strings  which  constitute 
the  warp  are  tied.  The  lower  ends  of  these  strings  are  tied  to  a  simi- 
lar bar,  which  is  anchored  by  stones  at  a  distance  of  about  two  inches 
from  the  ground,  thus  keeping  the  string  taut.  And  there  is  your  loom. 

On  the  ground  a  foot  away  squats  the  weaver,  bare-shinned  and 
bare-armed,  with  her  legs  crossed  tailor-fashion.  The  warp  hangs 
vertically  before  her,  and  she  never  rises  while  weaving.  A  stick 
holds  the  alternate  cords  of  the  warp  apart  in  opposite  directions, 
and  thus  enables  her  to  run  the  successive  threads  of  the  woof  across 
without  difficulty.  As  soon  as  a  thread  has  been  thus  loosely  intro- 
duced to  its  proper  position,  she  proceeds  to  ram  it  down  with  the 


264  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

tightness  of  the  charge  in  a  Fourth-of-July  cannon  by  means  of  a 
long,  thin,  hard-wood  "  batten-stick,"  frequently  shaped  something 
like  an  exaggerated  bread-knife.  It  is  little  wonder  that  that  woof 
will  hold  water,  or  stand  the  trampling  of  a  lifetime.  Every  thread 
of  it  is  rammed  home  with  a  series  of  vicious  jabs  sufficient  to  make 
it  "  set  down  and  stay  sot."  For  each  unit  of  the  frequently  intricate 
pattern  she  has  a  separate  skein;  and  the  unhesitating  skill  with 
which  she  brings  them  in  at  their  proper  intervals  is  astonishing. 

Now,  by  the  time  her  woof  has  risen  to  a  point  twenty-five  to 
thirty  inches  above  the  ground,  it  is  evident  that  some  new  arrange- 
ment is  essential  to  her  convenience.  Does  she  get  up  and  stand  to 
the  job?  Not  at  all.  She  simply  loosens  the  spirally  wound  rope 
on  the  pole  above  so  that  its  loops  hang  a  foot  or  two  lower,  thus 
letting  down  the  supplementary  yarn-beam  and  the  yarn-beam  by  the 
same  amount.  She  then  makes  a  fold  in  the  loosened  web,  and  tightly 
sews  the  upper  ege  of  this  fold  to  the  cloth-beam  below,  thus  mak- 
ing the  web  taut  again.  This  is  the  Navajo  patent  for  overcoming 
the  lack  of  our  "  revolving  cloth-bearers."  This  operation  is  repeated 
several  times  before  a  full-sized  blanket  is  completed.  The  smallest 
size  of  saddle  blanket  can  be  woven  without  changing  the  loom  at  all. 

All  Navajo  blankets  are  single  ply,  the  pattern  being  the  same  on 
both  sides.  I  have  seen  but  two  which  had  on  one  side  a  different 
pattern  from  that  on  the  other. 

The  range  of  quality  in  Navajo  blankets  is  great.  The  common 
blanket,  for  bedding  and  rough  wear,  is  a  rude  thing  indeed  beside  its 
feast-day  brother.  These  cheap  ones,  almost  always  of  full  size — 
about  six  by  five  feet — are  made  of  the  native  wool.  The  Navajos 
raise  their  own  sheep,  shear  them,  card,  twist,  and  dye  the  wool. 
The  prevailing  color  of  the  blanket  is  natural — a  whitish  gray — and 
through  this  ground  run  cross-stripes,  generallyof  blue,  but  sometimes 
of  red,  black,  or  yellow.  These  stripes  are  mostly  in  native  dyes, 
the  blue  being  now  obtained  from  American  indigo.  They  also  dye 
in  any  color  with  dyes  made  by  themselves  from  herbs  and  minerals. 
These  wool  blankets  require  a  week  or  so  for  weaving,  and  sell  at 
from  two  dollars  and  a  half  to  eight  dollars  apiece.  They  are  fre- 
quently half  an  inch  thick,  and  are  the  warmest  of  blankets,  their 
fuzzy  softness  making  them  much  warmer  than  the  higher-priced, 
tighter-woven,  and  consequently  stiffer  ones. 

In  the  second  grade  of  blankets  there  is  an  almost  endless  variety. 
These  are  now  made  of  Germantown  yarn,  which  the  Navajos  buy  in 


THE  NAVAJO  BLANKET  265 

big  skeins  at  the  various  stores  and  trading-posts  along  the  line  of 
the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Railway,  which  passes  some  twenty-five  miles 
south  of  the  whole  line  of  their  reservation.  And  remarkably  fine 
blankets  they  make  of  it.  Their  ability  as  inventors  of  neat  designs 
is  truly  remarkable.  The  cheap  blankets  are  very  much  of  a  piece; 
but  when  you  come  up  into  patterns,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  in  the 
whole  territory  two  blankets  exactly  alike.  The  designs  are  ingenious, 
characteristic,  and  admirably  worked  out.  Sometimes  the  weaver 
traces  the  pattern  on  the  sand  before  beginning  her  blanket,  but  as 
a  rule  she  composes  it  in  her  head  as  the  work  progresses.  Circles 
or  curved  lines  are  never  used  in  these  blankets.  The  prevailing  pat- 
terns are  straight  stripes,  diagonals,  regular  zigzags,  diamonds  and 
crosses — the  latter  being  to  the  Indians  emblems  of  the  morning  or 
evening  star. 

The  colors  used  are  limited  in  number.  Scarlet  is  the  favorite 
red,  and  indigo  almost  the  only  blue  in  use.  These  and  the  white 
of  the  bleached  wool  are  the  original  colors,  and  the  only  ones  which 
appear  in  the  very  best  blankets.  It  is  curious  that  these  savages 
should  have  chosen  our  own  "  red,  white,  and  blue  "  long  before  we 
did — they  were  weaving  already  before  the  first  European  ever  saw 
America.  The  Spanish  conquerors  brought  the  first  sheep  to  the  New 
World,  and  soon  gave  these  valuable  animals  to  the  Pueblo  Indians. 
So  wool  came  into  New  Mexico  and  displaced  the  Indian  cotton,  and 
the  Navajos  quickly  adopted  the  new  material. 

But  of  late  there  has  been  a  sad  deterioration  in  Navajo  weaving — 
the  Indians  have  learned  one  of  the  mean  lessons  of  civilization,  and 
now  make  their  blankets  less  to  wear  than  to  sell.  So  an  abominable 
combination  of  colors  has  crept  in,  until  it  is  very  difficult  longer  to 
get  a  blanket  with  only  the  real  Indian  hues.  Black,  green,  and  yel- 
low are  sometimes  found  in  superb  blankets,  and  so  combined  as 
not  to  lessen  their  value;  but  as  a  rule  these  colors  are  to  be  avoided. 
But  now  some  weavers  use  colors  which  to  an  Indian  are  actually 
accursed — like  violet,  purple,  dark  brown,  etc.,  the  colors  of  witch- 
craft— and  such  blankets  are  worthless  to  collectors.  With  any 
Indian,  color  is  a  matter  of  religion,  and  red  is  the  most  sacred  of 
hues.  The  amount  of  it  in  a  blanket  largely  determines  the  price. 
An  amusing  instance  of  the  Navajo  devotion  to  red  was  brought  to  my 
notice  some  years  ago.  A  post  trader  had  received  a  shipment  of 
prepared  coffee,  half  in  red  papers  and  half  in  blue.  In  a  month 
every  red  package  was  gone  and  every  blue  package  was  left  on  the 


266  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

shelves;  nor  would  the  Indians  accept  the  blue  even  then  until  long 
waiting  convinced  them  that  there  was  no  present  prospect  of  getting 
any  more  red. 

The  largest  of  these  Germantown-yarn  blankets  take  several 
weeks  to  weave,  and  are  worth  from  fifteen  to  fifty  dollars. 

The  very  highest  grade  of  Navajo  blanket  is  now  very  rare.  It  is 
a  dozen  years  since  one  of  them  has  been  made;  the  yarn  blankets, 
which  are  far  less  expensive  and  sell  just  as  well  to  the  ignorant 
traveler,  have  entirely  supplanted  them.  Only  a  few  of  the  precious 
old  ones  remain — a  few  in  the  hands  of  wealthy  Pueblo  Indians  and 
Mexicans — and  they  are  almost  priceless.  I  know  every  such  blanket 
in  the  southwest,  and,  outside  of  one  or  two  private  collections,  the 
specimens  can  be  counted  on  one's  fingers.  The  colors  of  these 
choicest  blankets  are  red,  white,  and  blue,  or,  rarely,  just  red  and 
white.  In  a  very  few  specimens  there  is  also  a  little  black.  Red  is 
very  much  the  prevailing  color,  and  takes  up  sometimes  four-fifths  of 
the  blanket,  the  other  colors  merely  drawing  the  pattern  on  a 
red  ground. 

This  red  material  is  from  a  fine  Turkish  woolen  cloth,  called 
balleta.  It  used  to  be  imported  to  Mexico,  whence  the  Navajos  pro- 
cured it  at  first.  Later,  it  was  sold  at  some  of  the  trading-posts  in 
this  territory.  The  fixed  price  of  it  was  six  dollars  a  pound.  The 
Navajos  used  to  ravel  this  cloth  and  use  the  thread  for  their  finest 
blankets;  and  it  made  such  blankets  as  never  have  been  produced 
elsewhere.  Their  durability  is  wonderful.  They  never  fade,  no  mat- 
ter how  frequently  washed — an  operation  in  which  amole,  the  sapo- 
naceous root  of  the  palmilla,  should  be  substituted  for  soap.  As  for 
wear,  I  have  seen  balleta  blankets  which  have  been  used  for  rugs  on 
the  floor  of  populous  Mexican  houses  for  fifty  years,  which  still 
retain  their  brilliant  color,  and  show  serious  wear  only  at  their  broken 
edges.  And  they  will  hold  water  as  well  as  canvas  will. 

These  finest  blankets  are  seldom  used  or  shown  except  upon 
festal  occasions,  such  as  councils,  dances,  and  races.  They  are  then 
brought  forth  with  all  the  silver  and  beaded  buckskin,  and  in  a  large 
crowd  of  Indians  make  a  truly  startling  display.  Some  wear  them 
the  middle  girt  around  the  waist  by  a  belt  of  heavy  silver  disks,  the 
lower  end  falling  below  the  knees,  the  upper  end  thrown  loosely 
over  the  shoulders.  Others  have  them  thrown  across  the  saddle,  and 
others  tie  them  in  an  ostentatious  roll  behind. 


THE  NAVAJO  BLANKET  267 

The  Navajos  and  Pueblos  also  weave  remarkably  fine  and  beau- 
tiful belts  and  garters,  from  two  to  eight  inches  wide  and  two  to  nine 
feet  long;  and  durable  and  pretty  dresses  for  their  women. 

The  loom  for  weaving  one  of  the  handsome  belts  worn  by  Pueblo 
women  is  quite  as  simple  as  that  of  the  Navajos  for  weaving  blankets. 
One  end  of  the  warp  is  fastened  to  a  stake  driven  into  the  ground  in 
front  of  the  weaver,  the  other  to  a  rod  held  in  place  by  a  strap  around 
her  waist;  so  to  tighten  the  warp  she  has  only  to  sit  back  a  little. 
The  device  for  separating  the  alternate  threads  of  the  warp  so  that 
the  shuttle  can  be  pushed  through  looks  like  a  small  rolling-pin ;  and 
in  the  weaver's  right  hand  is  the  oak  batten-stick  for  ramming  the 
threads  of  the  woof  tightly  together.  The  weaver  sits  flat  upon  the 
ground;  generally  upon  a  blanket  to  keep  her  manta  clean,  for  the 
dress  of  a  Pueblo  woman  is  neat,  handsome,  and  expensive.  These 
belts  are  always  two-ply,  that  is,  the  pattern  on  one  side  is  different 
from  that  on  the  other. 

It  may  also  be  news  to  you  to  learn  that  both  Navajos  and 
Pueblos  are  admirable  silversmiths,  and  make  all  -their  own  jewelry. 
Their  silver  rings,  bracelets,  earrings,  buttons,  belts,  dress  pins,  and 
bridle  ornaments  are  very  well  fashioned  with  a  few  rude  tools.  The 
Navajo  smith  works  on  a  flat  stone  under  a  tree;  but  the  Pueblo 
artificer  has  generally  a  bench  and  a  little  forge  in  a  room  of  his  house. 


NORA 
BY  ELIZABETH  WEST  PARKER 

When  I  came  back  from  Nora's  burial 

I  found  the  three  days'  work  to  do; 

The  kitchen  sink  piled  high  with  sticky  dishes, 

The  beds  unmade,  the  pantry  bare; 

Soiled  rugs  to  sweep,  soiled  floors  to  scrub ; 

Besides,  the  countless,  little,  nameless  things 

The  true  housekeeper's  feet  run  after  all  day  long 

And  never  overtake, — 

The  tiny  trivial  tasks  that  show  only  when  they 

Are  left  undone; 

Yet  their  accomplishment  makes  all  the  difference 

Between  the  comfort  and  the  rub 

Of  daily  living. 

Yes,  she,  the  one  I  loved  the  best  of  all, 

Who  ever  turned  toward  me  the  brighter  side  of  things, 

Who  shared  with  me  her  beauty  and  her  song, 

Was  gone; 

Gone  on  to  higher  life ;  and  there  was  left  for  me 

Only  the  same  old  toil  and  fret, — 

The  dirt  that  I  must  fight  each  hour, 

Knowing  full  well  that  it  would  conquer  me, 

That  surely  they  would  lay  me  down  in  it  at  last, — 

To  rub,  and  scrub,  and  scour,  and  clean, 

To  bake,  and  brew,  and  mend 

For  those  who  did  not  care  for  me  at  all. 

And  she  was  gone,  gone,  gone! 

Yet  I  took  up  the  broom  and  pail  with  strength 
I  never  felt  before. 
Lord !    How  she  hated  drudgery ! 
She  would  not  ever  talk  of  it. 
268 


NORA  269 

How  she  laughed  at  those  who  spent  a  good  time 

In  telling  how  much  work  they'd  done  that  day! 

Yet  she  was  tied  to  drudgery  herself 

As  most  of  us  must  always  be,  it  seems. 

"  It  is  to  do,"  she  said,  and  kept  her  thought 

Upon  the  book,  the  music,  and  the  bit 

Of  loveliness  her  flashing  needle  wrought  so  cleverly. 

She  had  so  little  strength ;  but  with  it  all  she  loved 

The  bird,  the  flower,  the  sky,  the  child — so  hard 

That  all  who  neared  her  caught  her  joy  in  life. 

No  pain  could  spoil  her  smile; 

When  it  was  winter  out-of-doors,  she  made  you  think  of  spring. 

When  I  came  back  from  Nora's  funeral 
I  worked  with  all  my  might  and  prayed, 
"  Oh,  let  me  be  like  her!  " 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  RAIMENT 
BY  IDA  MINERVA  TARBELL 

ONE  of  the  most  domineering  impulses  in  men  and  women  is  that 
bidding  them  to  make  themselves  beautiful.  But  this  instinct,  which 
has  led  men  and  women  from  strings  of  shells  to  modern  clothes, 
like  every  other  human  instinct,  has  its  distortions.  It  is  in  the 
failure  to  see  the  relative  importance  of  things,  to  keep  the  pro- 
portions, that  human  beings  lose  control  of  their  endowment.  Give 
an  instinct  an  inch,  and  it  invariably  takes  its  ell!  The  instinct  for 
clothes,  from  which  we  have  learned  so  much  in  our  climb  from 
savagery,  has  more  than  once  had  the  upper  hand  of  us.  So  dan- 
gerous to  the  prosperity  and  the  seriousness  of  peoples  has  its 
tyranny  been,  that  laws  have  again  and  again  been  passed  to  check 
it;  punishments  have  been  devised  to  frighten  off  men  from  indulging 
it;  whole  classes  have  been  put  into  dull  and  formless  costumes 
to  crucify  it. 

Man  gradually  and  in  the  main  has  conquered  his  passion  for 
ornament.  To-day,  in  the  leading  nations  of  the  world,  he  clothes 
rather  than  arrays  himself.  Woman  has  not  harnessed  the  instinct. 
She  still  allows  it  to  drive  her,  and  often  to  her  own  grave  prejudice. 
Even  in  a  democracy  like  our  own,  woman  has  not  been  able  to 
master  this  problem  of  clothes.  In  fact,  democracy  has  complicated 
the  problem  seriously. 

Under  the  old  regime  costumes  had  been  worked  out  for  the  vari- 
ous classes.  They  were  adapted  both  to  the  purse  and  to  the  pursuit. 
They  were  fitting — that  is,  silk  was  not  worn  in  huts  or  homespun  in 
palaces;  slippers  were  for  carriages  and  sabots  for  streets.  The  gar- 
ments of  a  class  were  founded  on  good  sound  principles  on  the  whole 
— but  they  marked  the  class.  Democracy  sought  to  destroy  out- 
ward distinctions.  The  proscribed  costumes  went  into  the  pot  with 
proscribed  positions.  Under  democracy  we  can  cook  in  silk  petti- 
coats and  go  to  the  White  House  in  a  cap  and  apron,  if  we  will.  And 
we  often  will,  that  being  a  way  to  advertise  our  equality! 

Class  costumes  destroyed,  the  principles  back  of  them,  that  is, 
fitness,  quality,  responsibility,  were  forgotten.  The  old  instinct  for 
270 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  RAIMENT  271 

ornament  broke  loose.  Its  tyranny  was  strengthened  by  the  eternal 
desire  of  the  individual  to  prove  himself  superior  to  his  fellows. 
Wealth  is  the  generally  accepted  standard  of  measurement  of  value 
in  this  country  to-day,  and  there  is  no  way  in  which  the  average 
man  can  show  wealth  so  clearly  as  in  encouraging  his  women  folk 
to  array  themselves.  Thus  we  have  the  anomaly  in  a  democracy 
of  a  primitive  instinct  let  loose,  and  the  adoption  of  discarded  aristo- 
cratic devices  for  proving  you  are  better  than  your  neighbor,  at  least 
in  the  one  revered  particular  of  having  more  money  to  spend! 

The  complication  of  the  woman's  life  by  this  domination  of  clothes 
is  extremely  serious.  In  many  cases  it  becomes  not  one  of  the  sides 
of  her  business,  but  the  business  of  her  life.  Such  undue  proportion 
has  the  matter  taken  in  the  American  Woman's  life  under  democracy 
that  one  is  sometimes  inclined  to  wonder  if  it  is  not  the  real  "  woman 
question."  Certainly  in  numbers  of  cases  it  is  the  rock  upon  which 
a  family's  happiness  splits.  The  point  is  not  at  all  that  women 
should  not  occupy  themselves  seriously  with  dress,  that  they  should 
not  look  on  it  as  an  art,  as  legitimate  as  any  other.  The  difficulty 
comes  in  not  mastering  the  art,  in  the  entirely  disproportionate  amount 
of  attention  which  is  given  to  the  subject,  in  the  disregard  of 
sound  principles. 

The  economic  side  of  the  matter  presses  hard  on  the  whole  country. 
It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  chief  economic  concern  of  a  great 
body  of  women  is  how  to  get  money  to  dress,  not  as  they  should,  but 
as  they  want  to.  It  is  to  get  money  for  clothes  that  drives  many, 
though  of  course  not  the  majority,  of  girls,  into  shops,  factories, 
and  offices.  It  is  because  they  are  using  all  they  earn  on  themselves 
that  they  are  able  to  make  the  brave  showing  that  they  do.  Many 
a  girl  is  misjudged  by  the  well-meaning  observer  or  investigator  be- 
cause of  this  fact — "  She  could  never  dress  like  that  on  $6,  $8,  or 
$15  a  week  and  support  herself,"  they  tell  you.  She  does  not  sup- 
port herself.  She  works  for  clothes,  and  clothes  alone.  Moreover, 
the  girl  who  has  the  pluck  to  do  hard  regular  work  that  she  may 
dress  better  has  interest  enough  to  work  at  night  to  make  her  earnings 
go  farther.  No  one  who  has  been  thrown  much  with  office  girls 
but  knows  case  after  case  of  girls  who  with,  the  aid  of  some  older 
member  of  the  family  cut  and  make  their  gowns,  plan  and  trim  their 
hats.  Moreover,  this  relieving  the  family  budget  of  dressing  the  girl 
is  a  boon  to  fathers  and  mothers. 


272  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

It  is  hard  on  industry,  however,  for  the  wage-earner  who  can 
afford  to  take  $6  or  $8  helps  pull  down  the  wages  of  other  thousands 
who  support  not  only  themselves,  but  others.  Moreover,  to  put  in 
one's  days  in  hard  labor  to  dress  well,  for  that  is  the  amount  of  it, 
is  demoralizing. 

Investigators  of  small  household  budgets  lay  it  down  as  a  rule 
that  as  the  income  increases  the  percentage  spent  for  clothing  in- 
creases more  rapidly  than  for  any  other  item.  It  is  true  in  the  pro- 
fessional classes,  and  especially  burdensome  there;  for  the  income  is 
usually  small,  but  the  social  demand  great. 

There  are  certain  industrial  and  ethical  results  from  this  pre- 
occupation with  clothes  which  should  not  be  overlooked,  particularly 
the  indifference  which  it  has  engendered.  The  very  heart  of  the 
question  of  clothes  of  the  American  woman  is  imitation.  That  is,  we 
are  not  engaged  in  an  effort  to  work  out  individuality.  We  are  not 
engaged  in  an  effort  to  find  costumes  which  by  their  expression  of 
the  taste  and  the  spirit  of  this  people  can  be  fixed  upon  as  appropri- 
ate American  costumes,  something  of  our  own.  From  top  to  bottom 
we  are  copying.  The  woman  of  wealth  goes  to  Paris  and  Vienna  for 
the  real  masterpieces  in  a  season's  wardrobe.  The  great  dressmakers 
and  milliners  go  to  the  same  cities  for  their  models.  Those  who 
cannot  go  abroad  to  seek  inspiration  and  ideas  copy  those  who  have 
gone  or  the  fashion  plates  they  import.  The  French  or  Viennese 
mode,  started  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue,  spreads  to  Twenty-third 
Street,  from  Twenty-third  Street  to  Fourteenth  Street,  from  Four- 
teenth Street  to  Grand  and  Canal.  Each  move  sees  it  reproduced  in 
materials  a  little  less  elegant  and  durable,  its  colors  a  trifle  vulgar- 
ized, its  ornaments  cheapened,  its  laces  poorer.  By  the  time  it  reaches 
Grand  Street  the  four  hundred  dollar  gown  in  brocaded  velvet  from 
the  best  looms  in  Europe  has  become  a  cotton  velvet  from  Lawrence 
or  Fall  River,  decorated  with  mercerized  lace  and  glass  ornaments 
from  Rhode  Island!  A  travesty — and  yet  a  recognizable  travesty. 
The  East  Side  hovers  over  it  as  Fifth  Avenue  has  done  over  the 
original.  The  very  shop  window,  where  it  is  displayed,  is  dressed  and 
painted  and  lighted  in  imitation  of  the  uptown  shop.  The  same  process 
goes  on  inland.  This  same  gown  will  travel  its  downward  path  from 
New  York  westward,  until  the  Grand  Street  creation  arrives  in  some 
cheap  and  gay  mining  or  factory  town.  From  start  to  finish  it  is 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  RAIMENT  273 

imitation,  and  on  this  imitation  vast  industries  are  built — imitations 
of  silk,  of  velvet,  of  lace,  of  jewels. 

These  imitations,  cheap  as  they  are,  are  a  far  greater  extrava- 
gance, for  their  buyers,  than  the  original  model  was  for  its  buyer, 
for  the  latter  came  from  that  class  where  money  does  not  count — 
while  the  former  is  of  a  class  where  every  penny  counts.  The  pity 
of  it  is  that  the  young  girls,  who  put  all  that  they  earn  into  elab- 
orate lingerie  at  seventy-nine  cents  a  set  (the  original  model  prob- 
ably sold  at  $50  or  $100),  into  open-work  hose  at  twenty-five  cents 
a  pair  (the  original  $10  a  pair),  into  willow  plumes  at  $1.19  (the 
original  sold  at  $50),  never  have  a  durable  or  suitable  garment. 
They  are  bravely  ornamented,  but  never  properly  clothed.  Moreover, 
they  are  brave  but  for  a  day.  Their  purchases  have  no  goodness  in 
them:  they  tear,  grow  rusty,  fall  to  pieces  with  the  first  few  wearings, 
and  the  poor  little  victims  are  shabby  and  bedraggled  often  before 
they  have  paid  for  their  belongings,  for  many  of  these  things  are 
bought  on  the  installment  plan,  particularly  hats  and  gowns. 

This  habit  of  buying  poor  imitations  does  not  end  in  the  girl's 
life  with  her  clothes.  When  she  marries,  she  carries  it  into  her  home. 
Decoration,  not  furnishing,  is  the  keynote  of  all  she  touches.  It  is 
she  who  is  the  best  patron  of  the  elaborate  and  monstrous  cheap  furni- 
ture, rugs,  draperies,  crockery,  bric-a-brac,  which  fill  the  shops  of 
the  cheaper  quarters  of  the  great  cities,  and  usually  all  quarters 
of  the  newer  inland  towns. 

Has  all  this  no  relation  to  national  prosperity — to  the  cost  of 
living?  The  effect  on  the  victim's  personal  budget  is  clear — the  effect 
it  has  on  the  family  budget,  which  it  dominates,  is  clear.  In  both 
cases  nothing  of  permanent  value  is  acquired.  The  good  linen  under- 
garments, the  "  all  wool  "  gown,  the  broadcloth  cape  or  coat,  those 
standard  garments  which  the  thrifty  once  acquired  and  cherished  only 
awaken  the  mirth  of  the  pretty  little  spendthrift  on  $8  a  week.  Solid 
pieces  of  furniture  such  as  often  dignify  even  the  huts  of  European 
peasants  and  are  passed  down  from  mother  to  daughter  for  genera- 
tions— are  objects  of  contempt  by  the  younger  generation  here.  Even 
the  daughters  of  good  old  New  England  farmers  are  found  to-day 
glad  to  exchange  mahogany  for  quartered  oak  and  English  pewter  for 
pressed  glass  and  stamped  crockery.  True,  another  generation  may 
come  in  and  buy  it  all  back  at  fabulous  prices,  but  the  waste  of  it! 

This  production  of  shoddy  cloth,  cotton  laces,  cheap  furniture, 
18 


274  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

what  is  it  but  waste!  Waste  of  labor  and  material!  Time  and 
money  and  strength  which  might  have  been  turned  to  producing 
things  of  permanent  values,  have  been  spent  in  things  which  have 
no  goodness  in  them,  things  which  because  of  their  lack  of  integrity 
and  soundness  must  be  forever  duplicated,  instead  of  freeing  industry 
to  go  ahead,  producing  other  good  and  permanent  things. 

What  it  all  amounts  to  is  that  the  instinct  for  ornament  has  gotten 
the  upper  hand  of  a  great  body  of  American  women.  We  have  failed 
so  far  to  develop  standards  of  taste,  fitness,  and  quality,  strong,  sure, 
and  good  enough  effectually  to  impose  themselves.  There  is  no 
national  taste  in  dress;  there  is  only  admirable  skill  in  adapting  fash- 
ions made  in  other  countries.  There  is  no  national  sense  of  restraint 
and  proportion.  It  is  pretty  generally  agreed  that  getting  all  you 
can  is  entirely  justifiable.  There  is  no  national  sense  of  quality; 
even  the  rich  to-day  in  this  country  wear  imitation  laces.  The  effect 
of  all  this  is  a  bewildering  restlessness  in  costume — a  sheeplike  will- 
ingness to  follow  to  the  extreme  the  grotesque  and  the  fantastic.  The 
very  general  adoption  of  the  ugly  and  meaningless  fashions  of  the 
last  few  years — peach-basket  hats,  hobble  skirts,  slippers  for  the 
street — is  a  case  in  point.  From  every  side  it  is  bad — defeating  its  own 
purpose — corrupting  national  taste  and  wasting  national  substance. 

Moreover,  the  false  standard  it  sets  up  socially  is  intolerable.  It 
sounds  fantastic  to  say  that  whole  bodies  of  women  place  their  chief 
reliance  for  social  advancement  on  dress,  but  it  is  true.  They  are 
or  are  not,  as  they  are  gowned!  The  worst  of  this  fantasy  is  not  only 
that  it  forces  too  much  attention  from  useful  women,  but  that  it 
gives  such  poise  and  assurance  to  the  ignorant  and  useless!  If  you 
look  like  the  women  of  a  set,  you  are  as  "  good  "  as  they,  is  the  demo- 
cratic standard  of  many  a  young  woman.  If  for  any  reason  she  is 
not  able1  to  produce  this  effect,  she  shrinks  from  contact,  whatever 
her  talent  or  charm !  And  she  is  often  not  altogether  wrong  in  think- 
ing she  will  not  be  welcome  if  her  dress  is  not  that  of  the  circle  to 
which  she  aspires.  Many  a  woman  indifferently  gowned  has  been 
made  to  feel  her  difference  from  the  elegant  she  found  herself  among. 
If  she  is  sure  of  herself  and  has  a  sense  of  humor,  this  may  be  an 
amusing  experience.  To  many,  however,  it  is  an  embittering  one! 

The  true  attack  on  the  tyranny  and  corruption  of  clothes  lies  in 
the  establishment  of  principles. 


THE  WOMAN  AND  HER  RAIMENT  275 

These  principles  are,  briefly: 

The  fitness  of  dress  depends  upon  the  occasion. 

The  beauty  of  dress  depends  upon  line  and  color. 

The  ethics  of  dress  depends  upon  quality  and  the  relation  of 
cost  to  one's  means. 

In  time  we  may  get  into  the  heads  of  all  women,  rich  and  poor, 
that  an  open-work  stocking  and  low  shoe  for  winter  and  street  wear 
are  as  unfit  as  they  all  concede  a  trailing  skirt  to  be.  In  time  we 
may  even  hope  to  train  the  eye  until  it  recognizes  the  difference  be- 
tween a  beautiful  and  a  grotesque  form,  between  a  flowing  and  a 
jagged  line.  In  time  we  may  restore  the  sense  of  quality,  which  our 
grandmothers  certainly  had,  and  which  almost  every  European 
peasant  brings  with  her  to  this  country. 

These  principles  are  teachable  things.  Let  her  once  grasp  them 
and  the  vagaries  of  style  will  become  as  distasteful  as  poor  drawing 
does  to  one  whose  eye  has  learned  what  is  correct,  as  lying  is  to  one 
who  has  cultivated  the  taste  for  the  truth. 

As  a  method  of  education,  instruction  in  the  principles  of  dress  is 
admirable  for  a  girl.  Through  it  she  can  be  made  to  grasp  the  truth 
which  women  so  generally  suspect  to-day;  that  is,  the  importance  of 
the  common  and  universal  things  of  life;  the  fact  that  all  these 
every-day  processes  are  the  expressions  of  the  great  underlying  truths 
of  life.  A  girl  can  be  taught,  too,  through  this  matter  of  dress,  as 
directly  perhaps  as  through  anything  that  concerns  her,  the  im- 
portance of  studying  human  follies!  Follies  grow  out  of  powerful 
human  instincts,  ineradicable  elements  of  human  nature.  They 
would  not  exist  if  there  were  not  at  the  bottom  of  them  some  impulse 
of  nature,  right  and  beautiful  and  essential.  The  folly  of  woman's 
dress  lies  not  in  her  instinct  to  make  herself  beautiful,  it  lies  in  her 
ignorance  of  the  principles  of  beauty,  of  the  intimate  and  essential 
connecti'on  between  utility  and  beauty.  It  lies  in  the  pitiful  assump- 
tion that  she  can  achieve  her  end  by  imitation,  that  she  can  be  the 
thing  she  envies  if  she  look  like  that  thing. 

The  matter  of  dress  is  the  more  important,  because  bound  up 
with  it  is  the  whole  grist  of  social  and  economic  problems.  It  is 
part  and  parcel  of  the  problem  of  the  cost  of  living,  of  woman's  wages, 
of  wasteful  industries,  of  the  social  evil  itself.  It  is  a  woman's  most 
direct  weapon  against  industrial  abuses,  her  all-powerful  weapon  as 
a  consumer.  At  the  time  of  the  Lawrence  strike,  Miss  Vida  Scudder, 


276  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

of  Wellesley  College,  is  reported  to  have  said  in  a  talk  to  a  group  of 
women  citizens  in  Lawrence: 

"  I  speak  for  thousands  besides  myself  when  I  say  that  I  would 
rather  never  again  wear  a  thread  of  woolen  than  know  that  my  gar- 
ments had  been  woven  at  the  cost  of  such  misery  as  I  have  seen  and 
known,  past  the  shadow  of  a  doubt,  to  have  existed  in  this  town." 

Miss  Scudder  might  have  been  more  emphatic  and  still  have  been 
entirely  within  the  limit  of  plain  obligation;  she  might  have  said,  "  I 
will  never  again  wear  a  thread  of  woolen  woven  at  the  cost  of  such 
misery  as  exists  in  this  town." 

Women  will  not  be  doing  their  duty,  as  citizens  in  this  country, 
until  they  recognize  fully  the  obligations  laid  upon  them  by  their 
control  of  consumption. 

The  very  heart  of  the  question  of  the  dress  is,  then,  economic  and 
social.  It  is  one  of  those  great  every-day  matters  on  which  the  moral 
and  physical  well-being  of  society  rests;  one  of  those  matters  which, 
rightly  understood,  fill  the  every-day  life  with  big  meanings,  show 
it  related  to  every  great  movement  for  the  betterment  of  man. 

Like  all  of  the  great  interests  in  the  Business  of  Being  a  Woman, 
it  is  primarily  an  individual  problem,  and  every  woman  who  solves 
it  for  herself,  that  is,  arrives  at  what  may  be  called  a  sound  mode  of 
dress,  makes  a  real  contribution  to  society.  There  is  a  tendency 
to  overlook  the  value  of  the  individual  solution  of  the  problems  of 
life,  and  yet  the  successful  individual  solution  is  perhaps  the  most 
genuine  and  fundamental  contribution  a  man  or  woman  can  make. 
The  end  of  living  is  a  life — fair,  sound,  sweet,  complete.  The  vast 
machinery  of  life  to  which  we  give  so  much  attention,  our  govern- 
ments, and  societies,  our  politics  and  wrangling,  is  nothing  in  itself. 
It  is  only  a  series  of  contrivances  to  insure  the  chance  to  grow  a  life. 
He  who  proves  that  he  can  conquer  his  conditions,  can  adjust  him- 
self to  the  machinery  in  which  he  finds  himself,  he  is  the  most  genuine 
of  social  servants.  He  realizes  the  thing  for  which  we  talk  and 
scheme,  and  so  proves  that  our  dreams  are  not  vain! 


SHIPPING 

BY  ARCHIE  AUSTIN  COATES 

Here  the  gray  wharf,  crawling  with  jostling  men, 

Redolent  of  the  barter  of  the  world ! 

Strange  smells  of  unknown  East  and  alien  South, 

Hemp  that  reeks  of  damp  Luzonian  cellars, 

And  hill  on  hill  of  bawdy-smelling  hides; 

Mattings  swarming  with  strange  sprawling  marks 

Seeming  a  lyric  poem  of  Japan, 

Instead  of  makers'  stenciled  business  signs. 

Faint  breaths  of  cinnamon  and  aloe  smells 

Mixed  with  the  knife-sharp  fragrance  of  the  sea; 

Great  sacks  of  beans,  like  pearls,  from  Italy, 

And  logs  of  teak  by  Burmese  coolies  cut. 

And  by  the  wharf  the  great  ship  silent  sleeps 
In  beauty,  as  she  were  some  huge  sea  cat 
Stretched  in  the  morning  sun  to  take  her  ease. 
A  slow  sea  dowager  of  swelling  flanks, 
Her  long  voyage  done,  who  waits  another  day 
When,  heavy-laden,  she  sets  forth  again 
To  carry  barter  round  the  girdled  globe. 

Here  is  the  meeting-place  of  all  the  world — 
A  nest  of  phantasies  where  sleeps  Romance 
Under  the  sun  of  a  long  still  summer  mom. 


277 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS 
BY  PETER  BERNARD  KYNE 

MR.  SKINNER  thrust  his  head  into  Cappy  Ricks'  office  and  said: 

"  I've  just  had  a  telephone  message  from  the  Merchants'  Ex- 
change. The  Titticum  is  passing  in." 

"  Then,"  said  Cappy  Ricks,  "  in  about  two  hours  at  the  latest 
we  may  expect  a  mournful  visit  from  Captain  Matt  Peasley." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Mr.  Ricks,"  said  Skinner  with  a  smirk,  "  I 
should  dearly  love  to  be  present  at  the  interview." 

Cappy  smiled  brightly. 

"  By  all  means,  Skinner,  my  dear  boy;  by  all  means,  since  you 
wish  it.  It  just  about  breaks  my  heart  to  think  of  the  cargo  of  grief 
I'm  going  to  slip  that  boy;  but  I  have  resolved  to  be  firm,  Skinner. 
He  owes  us  eighteen  thousand  dollars  and  he  must  go  through  with  his 
contract  to  the  very  letter,  and  pay  the  Blue  Star  Navigation  Com- 
pany every  last  cent  due  it.  He  will,  doubtless,  suggest  some  sort  of 
settlement — ten  cents  on  the  dollar " 

"  Don't  agree  to  it,"  Mr.  Skinner  pleaded.  "  He  has  more  than 
a  thousand  dollars  a  month  going  to  his  credit  on  our  books  from 
the  Unicorn  charter,  and  if  that  vessel  stays  afloat  a  year  longer 
we'll  be  in  the  clear.  Be  very  firm  with  him,  Mr.  Ricks.  As  you 
say,  it  is  all  for  his  own  benefit  and  the  experience  will  do  him  a 
whole  lot  of  good." 

"  I  love  the  boy,"  said  Cappy;  "  but  in  the  present  case,  Skinner, 
I  haven't  any  heart.  A  chunk  of  anthracite  coal  is  softer  than  that 
particular  organ  this  morning.  Be  sure  to  show  Matt  in  the  minute 
he  comes  up  from  the  dock." 

Mr.  Skinner  needed  no  urging  when,  less  than  two  hours  later, 
Captain  Matt  Peasley  arrived.  Mr.  Skinner  greeted  him  courteosuly 
and  followed  him  into  Cappy's  office. 

"Well,  well,  well!  "  Cappy  began  unctuously.  "How  do  you 
do,  Matt,  my  dear  boy?  Glad  to  see  you;  in  fact,  we're  extra  glad  to 
see  you,"  he  added  significantly  and  winked  at  Mr.  Skinner,  who 
caught  the  hint  and  murmured  loud  enough  for  Matt  Peasley  to  hear: 

"  Eighteen  thousand  dollars  to-morrow!  " 
278 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  279 

Cappy  extended  a  hand,  which  Matt  grasped  heartily. 

"  You're  looking  fit  as  a  fiddle,"  Cappy  continued.  "  Doesn't 
look  a  bit  worried — does  he,  Skinner?  " 

"  I  must  admit  he  appears  to  carry  it  off  very  well,  Mr.  Ricks. 
We  had  thought,  captain,"  Skinner  continued,  turning  to  Matt  Peas- 
ley,  "  that,  when  Mr.  Ricks  agreed  to  permit  you  to  assume  command 
of  the  Tttlicum  when  she  reached  Panama,  we  might  have  been 
treated  to  an  exhibition  of  speed;  but  the  fact  of  the  matter  is  that 
instead  of  economizing  on  time  you  are  about  ten  days  in  excess  of 
the  period  it  would  have  taken  for  Captain  Grant  to  have  discharged 
his  cargo  and  gotten  back  to  San  Francisco."  He  winked  at  Cappy 
Ricks,  who  returned  the  wink. 

"  You  mean  in  ballast,"  Matt  suggested.  Skinner  nodded.  "  Oh, 
well,  that  accounts  for  it,"  Matt  continued  serenely.  "  I  came  home 
with  a  cargo  of  steel  rails." 

Cappy  Ricks  slid  out  to  the  extreme  edge  of  his  swivel  chair ;  and, 
with  a  hand  on  each  knee,  he  gazed  at  Matt  Peasley  over  the  rims  of 
his  spectacles.  Mr.  Skinner  started  violently. 

"  You  came  home  with  a  cargo  of  steel  rails?  "  Cappy  de- 
manded incredulously. 

"  Certainly!  Do  you  suppose  I  would  go  to  the  expense  of  hiring 
somebody  else  to  skipper  the  TilHcum  while  I  was  there  with  my 
license?  Not  by  a  jugful!  I  was  saving  every  dollar  I  could. 
I  had  to." 

"  Er — er — Where  is  Captain  Grant?  "  Skinner  demanded. 

"  Captain  Grant  is  free,  white  and  twenty-one.  He  goes  where 
he  pleases  without  consulting  me,  Mr.  Skinner.  He  means  nothing 
in  my  life — so  why  should  I  know  where  he  is?  " 

"  You  infernal  scoundrel!  "  shrilled  Cappy  Ricks.  "  You  whaled 
him  and  threw  him  out  on  the  dock  at  Panama — that's  what  you  did 
to  him!  You  took  the  Tillicum  away  from  him  by  force." 

"  Captain  Grant  is  a  fine,  elderly  gentleman,  sir,"  Matt  inter- 
rupted. "  I  would  not  use  force  on  him.  He  left  the  ship  of  his  own 
free  will  at  San  Diego,  California." 

•"  At  San  Diego?  "  Cappy  and  Skinner  cried  in  unison. 

"  At  San  Diego." 

"  But  you  said  you  were  going  to  Panama  on  the  City  of  Para, 
the  regular  passenger  liner,"  Cappy  challenged. 


280  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

"  Well,  I  wasn't  committed  to  that  course,  sir.  After  leaving 
your  office  I  changed  my  mind.  I  figured  the  Tillicum  was  some- 
where off  the  coast  of  Lower  California;  so  I  wirelessed  Captain 
Grant,  explained  to  him  that  the  ship  was  back  on  my  hands  by  reason 
of  the  failure  of  Morrow  &  Company,  and  ordered  him  to  put  into  San 
Diego  for  further  orders.  He  proceeded  there;  I  proceeded  there; 
we  met ;  I  presented  your  letter  relieving  him  of  his  command.  Simple 
enough,  isn't  it?  " 

"  But  what  became  of  him?  " 

"  How  should  I  know,  sir?  I've  been  as  busy  as  a  bird  dog  down 
in  Panama.  Please  let  me  get  on  with  my  story.  I  had  just  cleared 
Point  Loma  and  was  about  to  surrender  the  bridge  to  my  first  mate 
when  an  interesting  little  message  came  trickling  out  of  the  ether — 
and  my  wireless  boy  picked  it  up,  because  it  was  addressed  to  l  Cap- 
tain Grant,  Master  S.  S.  Tttlkum:  " 

Cappy  Ricks  quivered  and  licked  his  lower  lip,  but  said  nothing. 

"  That  message,"  Matt  continued,  "  was  brought  to  me  by  the 
operator,  who  really  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  it.  Captain  Grant 
had  left  the  ship  and  Sparks  didn't  know  at  what  hotel  in  San  Diego 
the  late  master  of  the  Tillicum  would  put  up  for  the  night;  so  I  read 
the  message  to  see  whether  it  was  important,  for  I  felt  that  it  had 
to  do  with  the  ship's  business  and  that  I  was  justified  in  reading  it." 

Again  Cappy  Ricks  squirmed.  Mr.  Skinner  commenced  to  gnaw 
his  thumb  nail. 

"  That  message  broke  me  all  up,"  Matt  continued  sadly.  "  It 
destroyed  completely  my  faith  in  human  nature  and  demonstrated 
beyond  a  doubt  that  there  is  no  such  thing  in  this  world  as  fair  play 
in  business.  It's  like  a  water-front  fight.  You  just  get  your  man 
down  and  everything  goes — kicking,  biting,  gouging,  knee- work!" 
Matt  sighed  dolorously  and  drew  from  his  vest  pocket  a  scrap  of 
paper.  "  Just  listen  to  this  for  a  message!  "  He  continued.  "  Just 
imagine  how  nice  you'd  feel,  Mr.  Ricks,  if  you  were  skippering  a  boat 
and  picked  up  a  message  like  this  at  sea: 

"  '  Grant,  Master  Steamer  Tillicum:  Gave  Captain  Matt  Peasley 
a  letter  to  you  yesterday  ordering  you  to  turn  over  command  of  Tilli- 
cum to  him  on  presentation  or  demand.  This  on  his  request  and  on 
his  insistence,  as  per  clause  in  charter  party,  copy  of  which  you  have. 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  281 

Peasley  leaves  to-day  for  Panama  on  City  of  Para.  This  will  be  your 
authority  for  declining  to  surrender  the  ship  to  him  when  he  comes 
aboard  there.  Stand  pat!  Letter  with  complete  instructions  for 
your  guidance  follows  on  City  of  Para. 

1  RICKS/  " 

Cappy  Ricks  commenced  tapping  one  foot  nervously  against  the 
other,  Mr.  Skinner  coughed  perfunctorily,  while  Matt  withered  each 
with  a  rather  sorrowful  glance. 

"  Of  course  you  can  imagine  the  shock  this  gave  me.  I  give  you 
my  word  that  for  as  much  as  five  seconds  I  didn't  know  what  to  do; 
but  after  that  I  got  real  busy.  I  swung  the  ship  and  came  ramping 
back  to  San  Diego  harbor,  slipped  ashore  in  the  small  boat  and  found 
Captain  Grant  at  the  railroad  station  buying  a  ticket  for  San  Fran- 
cisco. I  had  to  wait  and  watch  the  ticket  office  for  an  hour  before 
he  showed  up,  and  when  he  did  I  made  him  a  proposition.  I  told  him 
that  if  he  would  agree  to  keep  away  from  the  office  of  the  Blue  Star 
Navigation  Company  you  might  think  he  was  peeved  at  being  relieved 
of  his  command  so  peremptorily,  and  hence  would  not  attach  any 
importance  to  his  failure  to  report  at  the  office. 

"  In  consideration  of  this  I  gave  him  my  word  of  honor  that  he 
would  be  restored  to  his  command  as  soon  as  I  could  bring  the 
Tillicum  back  from  Panama,  and  meantime  his  salary  would  continue 
just  the  same — in  proof  of  which  I  gave  him  a  check  for  two  months' 
pay  in  advance.  He  said  he  thought  it  all  a  very  queer  proceeding; 
but,  since  he  was  no  longer  in  command  of  the  TUlicum,  it  wasn't  up 
to  him  to  ask  questions,  and  he  agreed  to  my  proposition.  However, 
he  said  he  thought  he  ought  to  wire  the  company  acknowledging  re- 
ceipt of  their  instructions  with  reference  to  surrendering  his  command 
— and  I  agreed  with  him  that  he  should.  *  But,'  I  said,  '  why  bother 
sending  such  a  message,  collect,  ashore,  when  we  pay  a  flat  monthly 
rate  to  the  wireless  company  for  the  plant  and  operator  aboard  the 
ship,  no  matter  how  many  messages  we  send?  Give  me  your  mes- 
sage to  Mr.  Ricks  and  when  I  get  back  aboard  the  Tillicum  I'll 
wireless  it  to  him  for  you,  and  it  won't  cost  the  ship  a  cent  extra.' 

"  Well,  you  know  your  own  captains,  Mr.  Ricks.  They'll  save 
their  ships  a  dollar  wherever  they  can;  and  simple,  honest  Old  Man 
Grant  agreed  to  my  suggestion.  Before  he  had  an  opportunity  to 


282  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

consider  I  stepped  to  the  telegraph  office  and  wrote  this  message  for 
him."    Matt  produced  another  telegram  and  read: 

"  '  Blue  Star  Navigation  Company, 
"  '  258  California  Street,  San  Francisco. 

" '  Instructions  with  reference  to  change  of  masters  received. 

" '  Would  feel  badly  if  I  thought  any  act  of  mine  necessitated 
change;  but  since  my  conscience  is  clear  I  shall  not  worry.  I  always 
have  done  and  always  shall  do  my  duty  to  my  owners  without  thought 
of  my  personal  interests,  and  you  may  rely  fully  on  that  in  the 
present  emergency/ 

"  Well,  sir,  that  sounded  so  infernally  grandiloquent  to  Old  Man 
Grant  that  his  hand  actually  trembled  with  emotion  as  he  signed  it — 
at  my  suggestion.  You  know  I'd  hate  to  be  tried  for  forgery.  Then 
I  shook  hands  with  him  and  started  for  Panama  once  more — only  this 
time  I  kept  right  on  going;  and  I  didn't  spare  the  fuel  oil  either. 
Why  should  I?  It  wasn't  costing  me  anything." 

Both  Cappy  and  Mr.  Skinner  winced,  as  from  a  blow.  Matt 
waited  for  them  to  say  something,  but  they  didn't;  so  after  a  re- 
spectful interval  he  resumed: 

"  Off  the  Coronado  Islands  I  sent  you  Captain  Grant's  diplomatic 
message.  I  was  very  glad  to  send  it  to  you,  Mr.  Ricks,  because  I 
knew  its  receipt  would  make  you  very  happy,  and  I  like  to  scatter 
happiness  wherever  I  can.  The  Scriptures  say  we  should  return 
good  for  evil." 

Cappy  Ricks  bounded  to  his  feet  and  shook  a  skinny  fist  under 
Matt  Peasley's  nose. 

"  Be  careful  how  you  talk  to  me,  young  man,  or  I'll  lose  my 
tempter;  and  if  I  ever  do 

"  That  would  be  terrible,  wouldn't  it?  "  Matt  laughed.  "  I  sup- 
pose you'd  just  haul  off  and  biff  me  one,  and  I'd  think  it  was  autumn 
with  the  leaves  falling!  " 

Cappy  choked,  turned  purple,  sat  down  again,  and  glanced 
covertly  at  Mr.  Skinner,  who  returned  the  glance  with  one  that 
seemed  to  shout  aloud:  "  Mr.  Ricks,  I  smell  a  rat  as  big  as  a  Shet- 
land pony.  Something  has  slipped  and  we're  covered  with  blood. 
Incredible  as  it  may  seem,  this  rowdy  Peasley  has  out- thought  us!  " 

"  Did  you  get  the  letter  we  sent  Captain  Grant  at  Panama?  " 
Skinner  managed  to  articulate  presently. 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  283 

Matt  nodded  affirmatively. 

"  Opened  it,  I  suppose!  "  Cappy  accused  him. 

Matt  nodded  negatively,  produced  the  letter  from  his  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  Cappy. 

"  Where  I  was  raised,"  he  said  gently,  "  they  taught  boys  that 
it  was  wrong  to  read  other  people's  private  correspondence.  You 
will  note  that  the  seal  is  unbroken." 

"  Thank  God  for  that!  "  Cappy  Ricks  murmured,  sotto  voce, 
and  tore  the  letter  into  tiny  bits.  "  Now,  then,"  he  said,  "  we'll  hear 
the  rest  of  your  story." 

"  When  did  a  doctor  look  you  over  last?  "  Matt  queried.  "  I'm 
afraid  you'll  die  of  heart  disease  before  I  finish." 

"  I'm  sound  in  wind  and  limb,"  Cappy  declared.  "  I'm  not  so 
young  as  I  used  to  be;  but,  by  Jupiter,  there  isn't  any  young  pup 
on  the  street  who  can  tell  me  where  to  head  in!  What  next?  " 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Ricks,  very  shortly  after  I  had  rechartered  the 
Tttlicum  to  Morrow  &  Company  I  began  to  suspect  they  were  shy 
of  sufficient  capital  to  run  their  big  business  comfortably.  I  found 
it  very  hard  to  collect;  so,  fully  a  month  before  they  went  up  the 
spout,  I  commenced  to  figure  on  what  would  happen  to  me  if  they 
did.  Consequently,  I  wasn't  caught  napping.  On  the  day  Morrow 
committed  suicide  the  company  gave  me  a  check  that  was  repudiated 
at  the  bank.  I  protested  it  and  immediately  served  formal  notice  on 
Morrow  &  Company  that  their  failure  to  meet  the  terms  of  our 
charter  party  necessitated  immediate  cancellation;  and  accordingly 
I  was  cancelling  it." 

"Did  you  send  that  notice  by  registered  mail?"  Skinner  demanded. 

"You  bet! — with  a  return  registry  receipt  requested." 

Cappy  nodded  at  Skinner  approvingly,  as  though  to  say:  "  Smart 
of  him,  eh?  "  Matt  continued: 

"  After  sending  my  wireless  to  Captain  Grant  aboard  the  Tilli- 
cum  I  sent  a  cablegram  to  the  Panama  Railroad  people  informing 
them  that,  owing  to  certain  circumstances  over  which  I  had  no  con- 
trol, the  steamer  Tillicum,  fully  loaded  and  en  route  to  Panama  to 
discharge  cargo,  had  been  turned  back  on  my  hands  by  the  charterers. 
I  informed  them  that  I  had  diverted  the  steamer  to  San  Diego  for 
orders,  and  in  the  interim,  unless  the  Panama  Railroad  guaranteed 
me  by  cable  immediately  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  through-freight  rate 
for  the  Tttlicum,  and  a  return  cargo  to  San  Francisco,  I  would 


284  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

decline  to  send  the  TUlicum  to  Panama,  but  would,  on  the  contrary, 
divert  her  to  Tehuantepec  and  transship  her  cargo  over  the  Ameri- 
can-Hawaiian road  there." 

"  Of  course,"  Matt  went  on  calmly,  "  I  had  no  means  of  knowing 
what  freight  rate  Morrow  &  Company  received;  but  I  figured  that 
they  ought  to  get  about  forty  per  cent.,  the  Panama  Railroad  about 
twenty  per  cent.,  and  the  steamer  on  the  Atlantic  side  the  remaining 
forty.  So  I  decided  to  play  safe  and  ask  sixty  per  cent,  of  the  through 
rate,  figuring  that  the  Panama  Railroad  would  give  it  to  me  rather 
than  have  the  TUlicum' s  cargo  diverted  over  their  competitor's  road 
at  Tehuantepec.  In  the  first  place,  they  were  depending  on  business 
from  Morrow  &  Company's  ships;  and,  with  Morrow  &  Company 
gone  broke  and  a  new  company  liable  to  take  over  their  line,  it  would 
be  a  bad  precedent  to  establish,  to  permit  one  cargo  to  go  to  the 
competitor.  Future  cargoes  might  follow  it ! 

"  Then,  too,  the  schedule  of  the  ships  on  the  Atlantic  side  of  the 
Canal  doubtless  had  been  made  up  already,  with  a  view  to  handling 
this  cargo  ex-Tillicum  and  to  lose  the  cargo  would  throw  that  sched- 
ule out  of  joint;  in  fact,  from  whatever  angle  I  viewed  the  situation, 
I  could  see  that  the  railroad  company  would  prefer  to  give  up  its 
twenty  per  cent,  rather  than  decline  my  terms.  They  might  think 
their  competitor  had  already  made  me  an  offer!  Of  course,  it  was 
all  a  mighty  bluff  on  my  part,  but  bluffs  are  not  always  called,  par- 
ticularly when  they're  made  good  and  strong;  and,  believe  me,  my 
bluff  was  anything  but  weak  in  the  knees.  I  told  the  Panama  people 
to  wire  their  reply  to  me  at  San  Diego,  and  when  I  got  to  that  city, 
twenty-four  hours  later,  their  answer  was  awaiting  me," 

"  They  called  your  bluff?  "  Mr.  Skinner  challenged. 

"  Pooh-pooh  for  you!  "  Matt  laughed.  "  God  is  good  and  the 
devil  not  half  bad.  I  got  the  guaranties  I  asked  for,  old  dear!  Don't 
you  ever  think  I'd  have  been  crazy  enough  to  go  to  Panama 
without  them." 

Cappy  Ricks  jerked  forward  in  his  chair  again. 

"  Matt,"  he  said  sternly,  "  you  have  defaulted  in  your  payments 
to  the  Blue  Star  Navigation  Company  to  the  tune  of  eighteen  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  I'd  like  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say  about  that." 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  help  it,"  Matt  replied,  "  I  was  shy  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  when  Morrow  &  Company  defaulted  on  me,  and  I  was 
at  sea  when  the  other  payment  fell  due.  However,  you  had  your 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  285 

recourse.  You  could  have  canceled  the  charter  on  me.  That  was 
a  chance  I  had  to  take. 

"  Why  didn't  you  grab  the  ship  away  from  me?  If  you  had 
done  that  you  would  be  in  the  clear  to-day  instead  of  up  to  your 
neck  in  grief." 

"  We'll  grab  her  away  from  you  to-day — never  fear!  "  Cappy 
promised  him.  "  I  guess  we'll  get  ours  from  the  freight  due  on  that 
cargo  of  steel  rails  you  came  home  with." 

"  You  have  another  guess  coming,  Mr.  Ricks.  You'll  not  do 
any  grabbing  to-day,  for  the  reason  that  somebody  else  has  already 
grabbed  her." 

"  Who?  "  chorused  Cappy  and  Skinner. 

"  The  United  States  Marshal.  Half  an  hour  ago  the  Pacific 
Shipping  Company  libeled  her." 

"  What  for,  you  bonehead?  You  haven't  any  cause  for  libel, 
so  how  can  you  make  it  stick?  " 

"  The  Pacific  Shipping  Company  has  cause,  and  it  can  make  the 
libel  stick.  The  first  mate  of  the  Tillicum  assigned  to  the  Pacific 
Shipping  Company  his  claim  for  wages  as  mate ' 

"  Matt,  you  poor  goose!  The  Pacific  Shipping  Company  owe  him 
his  wages.  Your  company  chartered  the  boat,  and  we  will  not  pay 
such  a  ridiculous  claim." 

"  I  do  not  care  whether  you  do  or  not.  That  libel  will  keep  you 
from  canceling  my  charter,  although  when  you  failed  to  cancel  when 
I  failed  to  make  the  payments  as  stipulated,  your  laxity  must  be 
regarded  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  as  evidence  that  you  voluntarily 
waived  that  clause  in  the  charter;  and  after  you  have  voluntarily 
waived  a  thing  twice  you'll  have  a  job  making  it  stick  the  third  time." 

"  If  I  had  only  known!  "  groaned  Skinner  miserably. 

"  Besides,"  Matt  continued  brightly,  "  I  have  a  cargo  in  that 
vessel,  and  she's  under  charter  to  my  company  at  six  hundred  dollars 
a  day.  Of  course  you  know  very  well,  Mr.  Ricks,  that  while  the 
United  States  Marshal  remains  in  charge  of  her  I  cannot  discharge 
an  ounce  of  that  cargo  or  move  the  ship,  or — er — anything.  Well, 
naturally  that  will  be  no  fault  of  the  Pacific  Shipping  Company, 
Mr.  Ricks.  It  will  be  up  to  the  Blue  Star  Navigation  Company  to 
file  a  bond  and  lift  that  libel  in  order  that  I  may  have  some  use  of 
the  ship  I  have  chartered  from  you.  If  you  do  not  pull  the  plaster 


286  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

off  of  her  of  course  I'll  have  to  sue  you  for  heavy  damages;  and  I 
can  refuse  to  pay  you  any  moneys  due  you." 

"  We'll  lift  the  libel  in  an  hour,"  Mr.  Skinner  declared  dramati- 
cally; and  he  took  down  the  telephone  to  call  up  the  attorney  for 
the  Blue  Star. 

"  Wait!  "  said  Matt.  "  I'm  not  through.  Before  I  entered  the 
harbor  I  called  all  hands  up  on  the  boat  deck  and  explained  matters 
to  them.  They  had  been  engaged  by  Morrow  &  Company,  and  the 
firm  of  Morrow  &  Company  was  in  the  bankruptcy  court;  so  the 
prospects  of  cash  from  that  quarter  did  not  seem  encouraging.  The 
Pacific  Shipping  Company  had  made  a  bare-boat  charter  from  the 
Blue  Star  Navigation  Company,  and  had  then  made  a  similar  charter 
to  Morrow  &  Company ;  consequently,  the  Pacific  Shipping  Company 
would  repudiate  payment,  and,  as  president  and  principal  stock- 
holder of  that  company,  I  took  it  on  myself  to  repudiate  any  respon- 
sibility then  and  there. 

"  Then  the  crew  wanted  to  know  what  they  should  do,  and  I  said : 
'  Why,  seek  the  protection  of  the  law,  in  such  cases  made  and  pro- 
vided. A  seaman  is  not  presumed  to  have  any  knowledge  of  the 
intricate  deals  his  owners  may  put  through.  All  he  knows  is  that  he 
is  employed  aboard  a  ship,  and  if  he  doesn't  get  his  money  from  the 
charterers  at  the  completion  of  the  voyage  he  can  libel  the  ship  and 
collect  from  the  owners.  This  is  a  fine  new  steamer,  men,  and  I, 
for  one,  believe  she  is  good  for  what  is  owing  you  all;  and  if  you 
will  assign  your  claims  to  the  Pacific  Shipping  Company  I  will  pay 
them  in  full  and  trust  to  the  Blue  Star  Navigation  Company  to  reim- 
burse me/  So  they  did  that. 

"  Now  go  ahead,  Mr.  Skinner,  and  lift  the  libel  I  put  on  the 
vessel  for  my  first  mate's  account,  and  the  instant  you  get  it  lifted 
I'll  slap  another  libel  on  her  for  account  of  the  second  mate.  Get 
rid  of  the  second  mate's  claim  and  up  bobs  the  steward,  and  so  on, 
ad  libitum,  e  pluribus  unum,  now  and  forever,  one  and  inseparable. 
I  care  not  what  course  others  may  pursue,  but  as  for  me,  give  me 
liberty  or  give  me  death!  " 

Mr.  Skinner  quietly  hung  up  the  telephone  receiver. 

"  And,  by  the  way,"  Matt  continued,  "  I  forgot  to  mention  that 
I  requested  the  steward  to  stay  aboard  and  make  the  United  States 
Marshal  comfortable  as  soon  as  he  arrived.  In  these  little  matters 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  287 

one  might  as  well  be  courteous,  and  I  should  hate  to  have  the  Tillicum 
acquire  a  reputation  for  being  cheap  and  inhospitable." 

Gappy  Ricks  muttered  hoarsely. 

"  Really,  my  dear  Peasley,  this  matter  has  passed  beyond  the 
joke  stage,"  Mr.  Skinner  began  suavely. 

"  Let  me  get  along  with  my  story,"  said  he.  "  The  worst  is  yet 
to  come.  My  attorney  informs  me " 

"  Matt  Peasley,"  said  Gappy  Ricks,  "  that's  the  first  lie  I  ever 
knew  you  to  tell.  You  don't  have  to  hire  an  attorney  to  tell  you 
where  to  head  in,  you  infernal  sea  lawyer!  " 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  compliment,"  Matt  observed  quizzically. 
"  Perhaps  I  deserve  it.  However,  '  we  come  to  bury  Caesar,  not  to 
praise  him.'  " 

"  Well,  I'll  admit  that  the  failure  of  Morrow  &  Company  and 
the  Pacific  Shipping  Company  to  pay  the  crew  of  the  Tillicum  puts 
the  buck  up  to  me,  and  I  dare  say  I'll  have  to  pay,"  Cappy  admitted, 
his  voice  trembling  with  rage. 

"  Well,  that  isn't  the  only  bill  you'll  have  to  pay.  Don't  cheer 
until  you're  out  of  the  woods,  Mr.  Ricks.  You'll  have  to  pay  for  a 
couple  of  thousand  barrels  of  fuel  oil,  and  a  lot  of  engine  supplies, 
and  sea  stores,  and  laundry,  and  water — why,  Lord  bless  you,  Mr. 
Ricks,  I  can't  begin  to  think  of  all  the  things." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  "  Cappy  cried  triumphantly.  "It  was  an 
open-boat  charter,  my  son,  and  you  rechartered  on  the  same  basis; 
and,  though  Morrow  &  Company  were  originally  responsible,  you'll 
find  that  the  creditors,  despairing  of  collecting  from  them,  will  come 
down  on  the  Pacific  Shipping  Company  like  a  pack  of  ravening 
wolves,  by  thunder!  Don't  you  cheer  until  you're  out  of  the  woods! " 

"  Well,  I  have  a  license  to  cheer,"  Matt  replied,  "  because  I  got  out 
of  the  woods  a  long  time  ago.  Before  the  vessel  sailed  from  this 
port,  I  sent  this  letter  to  all  her  creditors!  "  And  Matt  thrust  into 
Cappy  Ricks'  hand  a  copy  of  the  letter  in  question. 

"  That  will  not  help  you  at  all,"  Mr.  Skinner,  who  had  read  the 
letter  over  Cappy's  shoulder,  declared. 

"  It  wouldn't — if  I  hadn't  sent  it  by  registered  mail  and  got  a 
return  receipt,"  Matt  admitted;  "but,  since  I  have  a  receipt  from 
every  creditor  acknowledging  the  denial  of  responsibility  of  the 
Pacific  Shipping  Company,  I'm  in  the  clear.  It  was  up  to  the  credi- 
tors to  protect  their  hands  before  the  vessel  went  to  sea!  They  had 


288  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ample  warning — and  I  can  prove  it!  I  tell  you,  Mr.  Ricks,  when 
you  begin  to  dig  into  this  matter  you  will  find  these  creditors  will 
claim  that  every  article  furnished  to  the  Tillicum  while  Morrow  & 
Company  had  her  was  ordered  on  requisitions  signed  by  Captain 
Grant,  your  employee,  or  Collins,  your  chief  engineer.  They  were 
your  servants  and  you  paid  their  salaries." 

"  All  right,  then,"  Cappy  challenged.  "  Suppose  we  do  have  to 
pay.  How  about  that  freight  money  you  collected  in  Panama — eh? 
How  about  that?  I  guess  we'll  have  an  accounting  of  the  freight 
money,  young  man." 

"  I  submit,  with  all  due  respect,  that  what  I  did  with  that  freight 
money  I  collected  in  Panama  is  none  of  your  business.  I  chartered 
a  vessel  from  you  and  she  was  loaded  with  a  cargo.  The  only  interest 
you  can  possibly  have  in  that  cargo  lies  in  the  fact  that  the  Pacific 
Stevedoring  Company  stowed  it  in  the  vessel  and  hasn't  been  paid 
some  forty-five  hundred  dollars  for  so  stowing  it,  and  eventually,  of 
course,  you'll  have  to  foot  the  bill  as  owner  of  the  vessel.  That 
vessel  and  cargo  were  thrown  back  on  my  hands,  not  on  yours;  so 
why  should  you  ask  questions  about  my  business?  " 

"  But  you'll  have  to  render  an  accounting  to  Morrow  &  Com- 
pany," Cappy  charged. 

"I'll  not.  They  gave  me  a  check  that  was  returned  branded 
*  Not  sufficient  funds ';  they  didn't  keep  their  charter  with  me,  and 
if  I  hadn't  been  a  fly  young  fellow  their  failure  would  have  ruined 
me,  and  then  a  lot  they'd  care  about  it!  If  I  spoke  to  them  about 
it  they'd  say:  '  Well,  these  things  will  happen  in  business.  We're 
sorry,  but  what  can  we  do  about  it?  '  No,  Mr.  Ricks;  I'm  in  the 
clear  with  Morrow  &  Company,  and  their  creditors  will  be  lucky 
if  I  do  not  present  my  claim  for  ten  thousand  dollars  because  of  that 
worthless  check  I  hold.  When  I  collected  from  the  Panama  Railroad 
Company  for  the  freight  on  that  southbound  cargo  I  paid  myself 
all  Morrow  &  Company  owed  me,  and  the  rest  is  velvet  if  I  choose 
to  keep  it.  If  I  do  not  choose  to  keep  it  the  only  tyonorable  course 
for  me  to  pursue  will  be  to  send  a  statement  and  my  check  for  the 
balance  to  the  receiver  for  Morrow  &  Company." 

"What!  "  demanded  Mr.  Skinner.  "And  leave  the  Blue  Star 
Navigation  Company  to  pay  the  crew?  " 

"Yes — and  the  fuel  bill,  and  the  butcher  and  the  baker  and 
the  candlestick  maker,  and  the  stevedoring  firm." 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  289 

Cappy  Ricks  motioned  to  Mr.  Skinner  to  be  silent;  then  he  rose 
and  placed  his  hand  on  Matt's  shoulder. 

"  Matt,"  he  said  kindly,  "  look  me  in  the  eyes  and  see  if  you 
can  have  the  crust  to  tell  me  that,  with  all  that  freight  money  in 
your  possession,  you  do  not  intend  to  apply  the  residue  to  the  pay- 
ments of  these  claims  against  the  TUlicum." 

Matt  bent  low  and  peered  fiercely  into  Cappy's  face,  for  all 
the  world  like  a  belligerent  rooster. 

"  Once  more,  my  dear  Mr.  Ricks,"  he  said  impressively,  "  I 
desire  to  inform  you  that,  so  far  as  the  steamer  TUlicum  is  concerned, 
1  venerate  you  as  a  human  Christmas  tree.  I'm  the  villain  in  this 
sketch  and  proud  of  it.  You're  stabbed  to  the  hilt!  Why  should 
I  be  expected  to  pay  the  debts  of  your  steamer?  " 

"  But  you  used  all  the  materials  placed  aboard  her  for  your  own 
use  and  benefit." 

"  That,  Mr.  Ricks,  constitutes  my  profit,"  Matt  retorted  pleas- 
antly. "  She  had  fuel  oil  aboard  when  she  was  turned  back  on  me 
sufficient  to  last  her  to  Panama  and  return — she  had  engine  supplies, 
gear,  beef  in  the  refrigerator,  provisions  in  the  storeroom,  and  clean 
laundry  in  the  linen  lockers;  in  fact,  I  never  went  to  sea  in  command 
of  a  ship  that  was  better  found." 

"  Matt  Peasley,"  said  Cappy  solemnly,  "  you  think  this  is  funny; 
but  it  isn't.  You  do  not  realize  what  you  are  doing.  Why,  this 
action  of  yours  will  be  construed  as  highway  robbery  and  no  man  on 
the  Street  will  trust  you.  You  must  think  of  your  future  in  business. 
If  this  leaks  out  nobody  will  ever  extend  you  any  credit " 

"  I  should  worry  about  credit  when  I  have  the  cash!  "  Matt 
retorted.  "  I'm  absolutely  within  the  law,  and  this  whole  affair  is 
my  picnic  and  your  funeral.  Moreover,  I  dare  you  to  give  me  per- 
mission to  circulate  this  story  up  and  down  California  Street!  Yes, 
sir,  I  dare  you — and  you  aren't  game!  Why,  everybody  would  be 
cheering  for  me  and  laughing  at  you.  I  haven't  any  sympathy  for 
you,  Mr.  Ricks.  You  got  me  into  this  whole  mess  when  a  kind  word 
from  you  would  have  kept  me  out  of  it.  But,  no;  you  wouldn't 
extend  me  that  kind  word.  You  wanted  to  see  me  get  tangled  up 
and  go  broke;  and  when  you  thought  I  was  a  dead  one  you  made 
fun  of  me  and  rejoiced  in  my  wretchedness,  and  did  everything  you 
could  to  put  me  down  and  out,  just  so  you  could  say:  '  Well,  I  warned 
19 


290  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

you,  Matt;  but  you  would  go  to  it.  You  have  nobody  to  blame 
but  yourself.' 

"  Of  course,  I  realize  that  you  didn't  want  to  make  any  money 
out  of  me;  but  you  did  want  to  manhandle  me,  Mr.  Ricks,  just  as 
a  sporting  proposition.  Besides,  you  tried  to  double-cross  me  with 
that  wireless  message.  I  knew  what  you  were  up  to.  You  thought 
you  had  pulled  the  same  stunt  on  me  I  pulled  on  you,  and  that  letter 
to  Captain  Grant  contained  full  instructions.  However,  you  wanted 
to  be  so  slick  about  it  you  wouldn't  get  caught  with  your  fingers  in 
the  jam;  so  you  forbore  to  cancel  my  charter.  You  figured  you'd 
present  me  with  my  troubles  all  in  one  heap  the  day  I  got  back  from 
Panama.  I'm  onto  you!" 

"  Well,  I  guess  we've  still  got  a  sting  in  our  tail,"  Cappy  answered 
pertly.  "  Slap  on  your  libels.  We'll  lift  'em  all,  and  to-morrow  we'll 
expect  eighteen  thousand  dollars  from  you,  or  I'm  afraid,  Matthew, 
my  boy,  you're  going  to  lose  that  ship  with  her  cargo  of  steel  rails, 
and  we'll  collect  the  freight." 

"  Again  you  lose.  You'll  have  to  make  a  formal  written  demand 
on  me  for  the  money  before  you  cancel  the  charter;  and  when  you 
do  I'll  hand  you  a  certified  check  for  eighteen  thousand  dollars. 
Don't  think  for  a  minute  that  I'm  a  pauper,  Mr.  Ricks;  because  I'm 
not.  When  a  fellow  freights  one  cargo  to  Panama  and  another  back, 
and  it  doesn't  cost  him  a  cent  to  stow  the  first  cargo  and  cheap 
Jamaica  labor  to  stow  the  second,  and  the  cost  of  operating  the  ship 
for  the  round  trip  is  absolutely  nil — I  tell  you,  sir,  there's 
money  in  it." 

Cappy  Ricks'  eyes  blazed,  but  he  controlled  his  temper  and 
made  one  final  appeal. 

"  Matt,"  he  said  plaintively,  "  don't  tell  me  that  a  Peasley,  of 
Thomaston,  Maine,  would  take  advantage  of  certain  adventitious  cir- 
cumstances and  the  legal  loopholes  provided  by  our  outrageous 
maritime  laws " 

"  To  swindle  the  Blue  Star  Navigation  Company!  "  Mr.  Skin- 
ner cut  in. 

"  Swindle  is  an  ugly  word,  Mr.  Skinner.  Please  do  not  use  it 
again  to  describe  my  legitimate  business — and  don't  ask  any  sym- 
pathy of  me.  You  two  are  old  enough  and  experienced  enough  in  the 
shipping  game  to  spin  your  own  tops.  You  didn't  give  me  any  the 
best  of  it;  you  crowded  my  hand  and  joggled  my  elbow,  and  it  would 


UNEXPECTED  DEVELOPMENTS  291 

have  been  the  signal  for  a  half  holiday  in  the  office  if  I  had 
gone  broke." 

"  But  after  all  Mr.  Ricks  has  done  for  you " 

"  He  always  had  value  received,  and  I  asked  no  favors  of  him — 
and  received  none." 

"  But  surely,  my  dear  Matt,"  Skinner  purred,  for  the  first  time 
calling  his  ancient  enemy  by  his  Christian  name — "  surely  you're 
jesting  with  us." 

"  Skinner,  old  horse,  I  was  never  more  serious  in  my  life.  Mr. 
Alden  P.  Ricks  is  my  ideal  of  a  perfect  business  man ;  and  just  before 
I  left  for  Panama  he  informed  me — rather  coldly,  I  thought — that 
he  never  mixed  sentiment  with  business.  Moreover,  he  advised  me 
not  to  do  it  either.  To  surrender  to  him  now  would  mean  the  frac- 
turing, for  the  first  time  in  history,  of  a  slogan  that  has  been  in  the 
Peasley  tribe  for  generations." 

"  What's  that?  "  Cappy  queried  with  shaking  voice. 

"  Pay  your  way  and  take  your  beating  like  a  sport,  sir,"  Matt 
shot  at  him.  He  drew  out  his  watch.  "  Well,"  he  continued,  "  I 
guess  the  United  States  Marshal  is  in  charge  of  the  Tttlicum  by  this 
time;  so  get  busy  with  the  bond  and  have  him  removed  from  the 
ship.  The  minute  one  of  those  birds  lights  on  my  deck  I  just 
go  crazy!  " 

"Yes,  you  do!  "  screamed  Cappy  Ricks,  completely  losing  his 
self-control.  "  You  go  crazy — like  a  fox!  " 

And  then  Cappy  Ricks  did  something  he  had  never  done  before. 
He  swore,  with  a  depth  of  feeling  and  a  range  of  language  to  be 
equaled  only  by  a  lumberjack.  Matt  Peasley  waited  until  he  sub- 
sided for  lack  of  new  invective  and  then  said  reproachfully: 

"  I  can't  stand  this  any  longer,  Mr.  Ricks.  I'll  have  to  go  now. 
Back  home  I  belonged  to  the  Congregational  Church " 

"  Out!  "  yelled  Cappy.    "  Out,  you  vagabond!  " 


THE  COD-FISHER 
BY  JOSEPH  CROSBY  LINCOLN 

Where  leap  the  long  Atlantic  swells 

In  foam-streaked  stretch  of  hill  and  dale, 
Where  shrill  the  north-wind  demon  yells, 

And  flings  the  spindrift  down  the  gale; 
Where,  beaten  against  the  bending  mast, 

The  frozen  raindrop  clings  and  cleaves, 
With  steadfast  front  for  calm  or  blast 

His  battered  schooner  rocks  and  heaves, 

To  some  the  gain,  to  some  the  loss, 
To  each  the  chance,  the  risk,  the  fight: 

For  men  must  die  that  men  must  live — 
Lord,  may  we  steer  our  course  aright. 

The  dripping  deck  beneath  him  reels, 

The  flooded  scuppers  spout  the  brine ; 
He  heeds  them  not,  he  only  feels 

The  tugging  of  a  tightened  line. 
The  grim  white  sea-fog  o'er  him  throws 

Its  clammy  curtain,  damp  and  cold; 
He  minds  it  not — his  work  he  knows, 

Tis  but  to  fill  an  empty  hold. 

Oft,  driven  through  the  night's  blind  wrack, 

He  feels  the  dread  berg's  ghastly  breath, 
Or  hears  draw  nigh  through  walls  of  black 

A  throbbing  engine  chanting  death; 
But  with  a  calm  unwrinkled  brow 

He  fronts  them,  grim  and  undismayed, 
For  storm  and  ice  and  liner's  bow--- 

These  are  but  chances  of  the  trade. 
292 


THE  COD-FISHER  293 

Yet  well  he  knows— where'er  it  be, 

On  low  Cape  Cod  or  bluff  Cape  Ann — 
With  straining  eyes  that  search  the  sea 

A  watching  woman  waits  her  man. 
He  knows  it  and  his  love  is  deep, 

But  work  is  work,  and  bread  is  bread, 
And  though  men  drown  and  women  weep 

The  hungry  thousands  must  be  fed. 

To  some  the  gain,  to  some  the  loss, 

To  each  his  chance,  the  game  with  Fate: 

For  men  must  die  that  men  must  live- 
Dear  Lord,  be  kind  to  those  who  wait. 


ABNER'S  WHALE 
BY  FRANK  THOMAS  BULLEN 

IN  a  previous  chapter  I  have  referred  to  the  fact  of  a  bounty 
being  offered  to  whoever  should  first  sight  a  useful  whale,  payable 
only  in  the  event  of  the  prize  being  secured  by  the  ship.  In  conse- 
quence of  our  ill-success,  and  to  stimulate  the  watchfulness  of  all, 
that  bounty  was  now  increased  from  ten  pounds  of  tobacco  to  twenty, 
or  fifteen  dollars,  whichever  the  winner  chose  to  have.  Most  of  us 
whites  regarded  this  as  quite  out  of  the  question  for  us,  whose  un- 
trained vision  was  as  the  naked  eye  to  a  telescope  when  pitted  against 
the  eagle-like  sight  of  the  Portuguese.  Nevertheless,  we  all  did  our 
little  best,  and  I  know,  for  one,  that  when  I  descended  from  my  lofty 
perch,  after  a  two  hours'  vigil,  my  eyes  often  ached  and  burned  for 
an  hour  afterwards  from  the  intensity  of  my  gaze  across  the  shining 
waste  of  waters. 

Judge,  then,  of  the  surprise  of  everybody,  when  one  forenoon 
watch,  three  days  after  we  had  lost  sight  of  Trinidada,  a  most 
extraordinary  sound  was  heard  from  the  fore  crow's-nest.  I  was,  at 
the  time,  up  at  the  main,  in  company  with  Louis,  the  mate's  har- 
pooner,  and  we  stared  across  to  see  whatever  was  the  matter.  The 
watchman  was  unfortunate  Abner  Gushing,  whose  trivial  offence  had 
been  so  severely  punished  a  short  time  before,  and  he  was  gesticulating 
and  howling  like  a  madman.  Up  from  below  came  the  deep  growl 
of  the  skipper,  "  Foremast  head,  there,  what  d'ye  say?  "  "B-b-b-blow, 
s-s-sir,"  stammered  Abner;  "  a  big  whale  right  in  the  way  of  the  sun, 
sir."  "  See  anythin',  Louey?  "  roared  the  skipper  to  my  companion, 
just  as  we  had  both  "  raised  "  the  spout  almost  in  the  glare  cast  by 
the  sun.  "  Yessir,"  answered  Louis;  "  but  I  kaint  make  him  eout 
yet,  sir."  "  All  right;  keep  yer  eye  on  him,  and  lemme  know  sharp  "; 
and  away  he  went  aft  for  his  glasses. 

The  course  was  slightly  altered,  so  that  we  headed  direct  for  the 
whale,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  afterwards  we  saw  distinctly  the 
great  black  column  of  a  sperm  whale's  head  rise  well  above  the  sea, 
scattering  a  circuit  of  foam  before  it,  and  emitting  a  bushy,  tufted 
burst  of  vapor  into  the  clear  air.  "  There  she  white-waters!  Ah, 
294 


ABNER'S  WHALE  293 

H-o-cr-o-o-o-w,  blow,  blow!  "  sang  Louis;  and  then,  in  another  tone, 
"  Sperm  whale,  sir;  big,  'lone  fish,  headin'  'beout  east-by-nothe." 
"  All  right.  'Way  down  from  aloft,"  answered  the  skipper,  who  was 
already  half-way  up  the  main-rigging;  and  like  squirrels  we  slipped 
out  of  our  hoops  and  down  the  backstays,  passing  the  skipper  like  a 
flash  as  he  toiled  upwards,  bellowing  orders  as  he  went.  Short  as  our 
journey  down  had  been,  when  we  arrived  on  deck  we  found  all  ready 
for  a  start.  But  as  the  whale  was  at  least  seven  miles  away,  and  we 
had  a  fair  wind  for  him,  there  was  no  hurry  to  lower,  so  we  all  stood 
at  attention  by  our  respective  boats,  waiting  for  the  signal.  I  found, 
to  my  surprise,  that,  although  I  was  conscious  of  a  much  more  rapid 
heart-beat  than  usual,  I  was  not  half  so  scared  as  I  expected  to  be — 
that  the  excitement  was  rather  pleasant  than  otherwise.  There  were 
a  few  traces  of  funk  about  some  of  the  others  still ;  but  as  for  Abner, 
he  was  fairly  transformed;  I  hardly  knew  the  man.  He  was  one  of 
Goliath's  boat's  crew,  and  the  big  darkey  was  quite  proud  of  him. 
His  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  chuckled  and  smiled  constantly,  as  one  who 
is  conscious  of  having  done  a  grand  stroke  of  business,  not  only  for 
himself,  but  for  all  hands.  "  Lower  away  boats!  "  came  pealing  down 
from  the  skipper's  lofty  perch,  succeeded  instantly  by  the  rattle  of 
the  patent  blocks  as  the  falls  flew  through  them,  while  the  four  beau- 
tiful craft  took  the  water  with  an  almost  simultaneous  splash.  The 
ship-keepers  had  trimmed  the  yards  to  the  wind  and  hauled  up  the 
courses,  so  that  simply  putting  the  helm  down  deadened  our  way, 
and  allowed  the  boats  to  run  clear  without  danger  of  fouling  one 
another.  To  shove  off  and  hoist  sail  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments, 
and  with  a  fine  working  breeze  away  we  went.  As  before,  our  boat, 
being  the  chief's,  had  the  post  of  honor;  but  there  was  now  only  one 
whale,  and  I  rather  wondered  why  we  had  all  left  the  ship.  Accord- 
ing to  expectations,  down  he  went  when  we  were  within  a  couple  of 
miles  of  him,  but  quietly  and  with  great  dignity,  elevating  his  tail 
perpendicularly  in  the  air,  and  sinking  slowly  from  our  view.  Again 
I  found  Mr.  Count  talkative. 

"  Thet  whale'll  stay  down  fifty  minutes,  I  guess,"  said  he,  "  fer 
he's  every  gill  ov  a  hundred  en  twenty  bar'l;  and  don't  yew  fergit  it." 
"  Do  the  big  whales  give  much  more  trouble  than  the  little  ones?  "  I 
asked,  seeing  him  thus  chatty.  "  Wall,  it's  jest  ez  it  happens,  boy — 
just  ez  it  happens.  Fve  seen  a  fifty-bar'l  bull  make  the  purtiest  fight 
I  ever  hearn  tell  ov — a  fight  thet  lasted  twenty  hours,  stove  three 


296  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

boats,  'n  killed  two  men.  Then,  again,  I've  seen  a  hundred  'n  fifty 
bar'l  whale  lay  'n  take  his  grooel  'thout  hardly  wunkin'  'n  eyelid— 
never  moved  ten  fathom  from  fust  iron  till  fin  eout.  So  yew  may  say, 
boy,  that  they're  like  peepul — got  thair  individooal  pekyewlyarities, 
an'  thar's  no  countin'  on  'em  for  sartin  nary  time."  I  was  in  great 
hopes  of  getting  some  useful  information  while  his  mood  lasted;  but 
it  was  over,  and  silence  reigned.  Nor  did  I  dare  to  ask  any  more 
questions;  he  looked  so  stern  and  fierce.  The  scene  was  very  striking. 
Overhead,  a  bright  blue  sky  just  fringed  with  fleecy  little  clouds; 
beneath,  a  deep  blue  sea  with  innumerable  tiny  wavelets  dancing  and 
glittering  in  the  blaze  of  the  sun;  but  all  swayed  in  one  direction  by 
a  great,  solemn  swell  that  slowly  rolled  from  east  to  west,  like  the 
measured  breathing  of  some  world-supporting  monster.  Four  little 
craft  in  a  group,  with  twenty-four  men  in  them,  silently  waiting  for 
battle  with  one  of  the  mightiest  of  God's  creatures — one  that  was 
indeed  a  terrible  foe  to  encounter  were  he  but  wise  enough  to  make  the 
best  use  of  his  opportunities.  Against  him  we  came  with  our  puny 
weapons,  of  which  I  could  not  help  reminding  myself  that  "  he  laugh- 
eth  at  the  shaking  of  a  spear."  But  when  the  man's  brain  was  thrown 
into  the  scale  against  the  instinct  of  the  brute,  the  contest  looked  less 
unequal  than  at  first  sight,  for  there  is  the  secret  of  success.  My 
musings  were  very  suddenly  interrupted.  Whether  we  had  overrun 
our  distance,  or  the  whale,  who  was  not  "  making  a  passage,"  but 
feeding,  had  changed  his  course,  I  do  not  know;  but,  anyhow,  he 
broke  water  close  ahead,  coming  straight  for  our  boat.  His  great 
black  head,  like  the  broad  bow  of  a  dumb  barge,  driving  the  waves 
before  it,  loomed  high  and  menacing  to  me,  for  I  was  not  forbidden 
to  look  ahead  now.  But  coolly,  as  if  coming  alongside  the  ship,  the 
mate  bent  to  the  big  steer-oar,  and  swung  the  boat  off  at  right  angles 
to  her  course,  bringing  her  back  again  with  another  broad  sheer  as 
the  whale  passed  foaming.  This  manoeuver  brought  us  side  by  side 
with  him  before  he  had  time  to  realize  that  we  were  there.  Up  till 
that  instant  he  had  evidently  not  seen  us,  and  his  surprise  was  cor- 
respondingly great.  To  see  Louis  raise  his  harpoon  high  above  his 
head,  and  with  a  hoarse  grunt  of  satisfaction  plunge  it  into  the  black, 
shining  mass  beside  him  up  to  the  hitches,  was  indeed  a  sight  to  be 
remembered.  Quick  as  thought  he  snatched  up  a  second  harpoon,  and 
as  the  whale  rolled  from  us  it  flew  from  his  hand,  burying  itself  like 
the  former  one,  but  lower  down  the  body.  The  great  impetus  we  had 


ABNER'S  WHALE  297 

when  we  reached  the  whale  carried  us  a  long  way  past  him,  out  of  all 
danger  from  his  struggles.  No  hindrance  was  experienced  from  the 
line  by  which  we  were  connected  with  the  whale,  for  it  was  loosely 
coiled  in  a  space  for  the  purpose  in  the  boat's  bow  to  the  extent  of 
two  hundred  feet,  and  this  was  cast  overboard  by  the  harpooner  as 
soon  as  the  fish  was  fast.  He  made  a  fearful  to-do  over  it,  rolling 
completely  over  several  times  backward  and  forward,  at  the  same 
time  smiting  the  sea  with  his  mighty  tail,  making  an  almost  deafening 
noise  and  pother.  But  we  were  comfortable  enough,  while  we  un- 
shipped the  mast  and  made  ready  for  action,  being  sufficiently  far 
away  from  him  to  escape  the  full  effects  of  his  gambols.  It  was  im- 
possible to  avoid  reflecting,  however,  upon  what  would  happen  if,  in 
our  unprepared  and  so  far  helpless  state,  he  were,  instead  of  simply 
tumbling  about  in  an  aimless,  blind  sort  of  fury,  to  rush  at  the  boat 
and  try  to  destroy  it.  Very  few  indeed  would  survive  such  an  attack, 
unless  the  tactics  were  radically  altered.  No  doubt  they  would  be,  for 
practices  grow  up  in  consequence  of  the  circumstances  with  which 
they  have  to  deal. 

After  the  usual  time  spent  in  furious  attempts  to  free  himself 
from  our  annoyance,  he  betook  himself  below,  leaving  us  to  await 
his  return,  and  hasten  it  as  much  as  possible  by  keeping  a  severe 
strain  upon  the  line.  Our  efforts  in  this  direction,  however,  did  not 
seem  to  have  any  effect  upon  him  at  all.  Flake  after  flake  ran  out  of 
the  tubs,  until  we  were  compelled  to  hand  the  end  of  our  line  to  the 
second  mate  to  splice  his  own  on  to.  Still  it  slipped  away,  and  at 
last  it  was  handed  to  the  third  mate,  whose  two  tubs  met  the  same 
fate.  It  was  now  Mistah  Jones'  turn  to  "  bend  on,"  which  he  did  with 
many  chuckles  as  of  a  man  who  was  the  last  resource  of  the  unfor- 
tunate. But  his  face  grew  longer  and  longer  as  the  never-resting  line 
continued  to  disappear.  Soon  he  signaled  us  that  he  was  nearly  out 
of  line,  and  two  or  three  minutes  after  he  bent  on  his  "  drogue  "  (a 
square  piece  of  plank  with  a  rope  tail  spliced  into  its  center,  and  con- 
sidered to  hinder  a  whale's  progress  at  least  as  much  as  four  boats), 
and  let  go  the  end.  We  had  each  bent  on  our  drogues  in  the  same 
way,  when  we  passed  our  ends  to  one  another.  So  now  our  friend 
was  getting  along  somewhere  below  with  7200  feet  of  1  ^2-inch  rope, 
and  weight  additional  equal  to  the  drag  of  sixteen  30-feet  boats. 

Of  course,  we  knew  that,  unless  he  were  dead  and  sinking,  he 
could  not  possibly  remain  much  longer  beneath  the  surface.  The 


298  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

exhibition  of  endurance  we  had  just  been  favored  with  was  a  very 
unusual  one,  I  was  told,  it  being  a  rare  thing  for  a  cachalot  to  take 
out  two  boats'  lines  before  returning  to  the  surface  to  spout. 

Therefore,  we  separated  as  widely  as  was  thought  necessary,  in 
order  to  be  near  him  on  his  arrival.  It  was,  as  might  be  imagined, 
some  time  before  we  saw  the  light  of  his  countenance;  but  when  we 
did,  we  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  alongside  of  him  again.  My  friend 
Goliath,  much  to  my  delight,  got  there  first,  and  succeeded  in  pick- 
ing up  the  bight  of  the  line.  But  having  done  so,  his  chance  of  dis- 
tinguishing himself  was  gone.  Hampered  by  the  immense  quantity 
of  sunken  line  which  was  attached  to  the  whale,  he  could  do  nothing, 
and  soon  received  orders  to  cut  the  bight  of  the  line  and  pass  the 
whale's  end  to  us.  He  had  hardly  obeyed,  with  a  very  bad  grace, 
when  the  whale  started  off  to  windward  with  us  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
The  other  boats,  having  no  line,  could  do  nothing  to  help,  so  away 
we  went  alone,  with  barely  a  hundred  fathoms  of  line,  in  case  he 
should  take  it  into  his  head  to  sound  again.  The  speed  at  which  he 
went  made  it  appear  as  if  a  gale  of  wind  was  blowing,  and  we  flew 
along  the  sea  surface,  leaping  from  crest  to  crest  of  the  waves  with 
an  incessant  succession  of  cracks  like  pistol-shots.  The  flying  spray 
drenched  us  and  prevented  us  from  seeing  him,  but  I  fully  realized 
that  it  was  nothing  to  what  we  should  have  to  put  up  with  if  the  wind 
freshened  much.  One  hand  was  kept  baling  the  water  out  which  came 
so  freely  over  the  bows,  but  all  the  rest  hauled  with  all  their  might 
upon  the  line,  hoping  to  get  a  little  closer  to  the  flying  monster.  Inch 
by  inch  we  gained  on  him,  encouraged  by  the  hoarse  objurgations  of 
the  mate,  whose  excitement  was  intense.  After  what  seemed  a  terribly 
long  chase,  we  found  his  speed  slackening,  and  we  redoubled  our 
efforts.  Now  we  were  close  upon  him ;  now,  in  obedience  to  the  steers- 
man, the  boat  sheered  out  a  bit,  and  we  were  abreast  of  his  laboring 
flukes;  now  the  mate  hurls  his  quivering  lance  with  such  hearty 
good-will  that  every  inch  of  its  slender  shaft  disappeared  within  the 
huge  body.  "  Lay  off!  Off  with  her,  Louey!  "  screamed  the  mate; 
and  she  gave  a  wide  sheer  away  from  the  whale,  not  a  second  too 
soon.  Up  flew  that  awful  tail,  descending  with  a  crash  upon  the  water 
not  two  feet  from  us.  "  Out  oars!  Pull,  two!  starn,  three!  "  shouted 
the  mate ;  and  as  we  obeyed  our  foe  turned  to  fight.  Then  might  one 
see  how  courage  and  skill  were  such  mighty  factors  in  the  apparently 
unequal  contest.  The  whale's  great  length  made  it  no  easy  job  for 


ABNER'S  WHALE  299 

him  to  turn,  while  our  boat,  with  two  oars  a-side,  and  the  great  lever- 
age at  the  stern  supplied  by  the  nineteen-foot  steer-oar,  circled, 
backed,  and  darted  ahead  like  a  living  thing  animated  by  the  mind 
of  our  commander.  When  the  leviathan  settled,  we  gave  a  wide  berth 
to  his  probable  place  of  ascent;  when  he  rushed  at  us,  we  dodged  him; 
when  he  paused,  if  only  momentarily,  in  we  flew,  and  got  home  a  fear- 
ful thrust  of  the  deadly  lance. 

All  fear  was  forgotten  now — I  panted,  thirsted  for  his  life.  Once, 
indeed,  in  a  sort  of  frenzy,  when  for  an  instant  we  lay  side  by  side  with 
him,  I  drew  my  sheath-knife,  and  plunged  it  repeatedly  into  the  blub- 
ber, as  if  I  were  assisting  in  his  destruction.  Suddenly  the  mate 
gave  a  howl:  "  Starn  all — starn  all!  oh,  starnl  "  and  the  oars  bent 
like  canes  as  we  obeyed.  There  was  an  upheaval  of  the  sea  just 
ahead;  then  slowly,  majestically,  the  vast  body  of  our  foe  rose  into 
the  air.  Up,  up  it  went,  while  my  heart  stood  still,  until  the  whole 
of  that  immense  creature  hung  on  high,  apparently  motionless,  and 
then  fell — a  hundred  tons  of  solid  flesh — back  into  the  sea.  On  either 
side  of  that  mountainous  mass  the  waters  rose  in  shining  towers  of 
snowy  foam,  which  fell  in  their  turn,  whirling  and  eddying  around 
us  as  we  tossed  and  fell  like  a  chip  in  a  whirlpool.  Blinded  by  the 
flying  spray,  baling  for  very  life  to  free  the  boat  from  the  water  with 
which  she  was  nearly  full,  it  was  some  minutes  before  I  was  able  to 
decide  whether  we  were  still  uninjured  or  not.  Then  I  saw,  at  a  little 
distance,  the  whale  lying  quietly.  As  I  looked  he  spouted,  and  the 
vapor  was  red  with  his  blood.  "  Starn  all!  "  again  cried  our  chief, 
and  we  retreated  to  a  considerable  distance.  The  old  warrior's  prac- 
ticed eye  had  detected  the  coming  climax  of  our  efforts,  the  dying 
agony  or  "  flurry  "  of  the  great  mammal.  Turning  upon  his  side, 
he  began  to  move  in  a  circular  direction,  slowly  at  first,  then  faster 
and  faster,  until  he  was  rushing  round  at  tremendous  speed,  his 
great  head  raised  quite  out  of  water  at  times,  clashing  his  enormous 
jaws.  Torrents  of  blood  poured  from  his  spout-hole,  accompanied  by 
hoarse  bellowings,  as  of  some  gigantic  bull,  but  really  caused  by  the 
laboring  breath  trying  to  pass  through  the  clogged  air  passages.  The 
utmost  caution  and  rapidity  of  manipulation  of  the  boat  was  neces- 
sary to  avoid  his  maddened  rush,  but  this  gigantic  energy  was  short- 
lived. In  a  few  minutes  he  subsided  slowly  in  death,  his  mighty  body 
reclined  on  one  side,  the  fin  uppermost  waving  limply  as  he  rolled 
to  the  swell,  while  the  small  waves  broke  gently  over  the  carcass  in 


300  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

a  low,  monotonous  surf,  intensifying  the  profound  silence  that  had 
succeeded  the  tumult  of  our  conflict  with  the  late  monarch  of  the 
deep.  Hardly  had  the  flurry  ceased,  when  we  hauled  up  alongside 
of  our  hard-won  prize,  in  order  to  secure  a  line  to  him  in  a  better 
manner  than  at  present  for  hauling  him  to  the  ship.  This  was  effected 
by  cutting  a  hole  through  the  tough,  gristly  substance  of  the  flukes 
with  the  short  "  boat-spade,"  carried  for  the  purpose.  The  end  of  the 
line,  cut  off  from  the  faithful  harpoon  that  had  held  it  so  long,  was 
then  passed  through  this  hole  and  made  fast.  This  done,  it  was 
"  Smoke-oh!  "  The  luxury  of  that  rest  and  refreshment  was  some- 
thing to  be  grateful  for,  coming,  as  it  did,  in  such  complete  contrast 
to  our  recent  violent  exertions. 

The  ship  was  some  three  or  four  miles  off  to  leeward,  so  we  reck- 
oned she  would  take  at  least  an  hour  and  a  half  to  work  up  to  us. 
Meanwhile,  our  part  of  the  performance  being  over,  and  well  over, 
we  thoroughly  enjoyed  ourselves,  lazily  rocking  on  the  gentle  swell  by 
the  side  of  a  catch  worth  at  least  £800.  During  the  conflict  I  had  not 
noticed  what  now  claimed  attention — several  great  masses  of  white, 
semi-transparent-looking  substance  floating  about,  of  huge  size  and 
irregular  shape.  But  one  of  these  curious  lumps  came  floating  by  as 
we  lay,  tugged  at  by  several  fish,  and  I  immediately  asked  the  mate 
if  he  could  tell  me  what  it  was  and  where  it  came  from.  He  told  me 
that,  when  dying,  the  cachalot  always  ejected  the  contents  of  his 
stomach,  which  were  invariably  composed  of  such  masses  as  we  saw 
before  us;  that  he  believed  the  stuff  to  be  portions  of  big  cuttle-fish, 
bitten  off  by  the  whale  for  the  purpose  of  swallowing,  but  he  wasn't 
sure.  Anyhow,  I  could  haul  this  piece  alongside  now,  if  I  liked,  and 
see.  Secretly  wondering  at  the  indifference  shown  by  this  officer  of 
forty  years'  whaling  experience  to  such  a  wonderful  fact  as  appeared 
to  be  here  presented,  I  thanked  him,  and,  sticking  the  boat-hook  into 
the  lump,  drew  it  alongside.  It  was  at  once  evident  that  it  was  a 
massive  fragment  of  cuttle-fish — tentacle  or  arm — as  thick  as  a  stout 
man's  body,  and  with  six  or  seven  sucking-discs  or  acetabula  on  it. 
These  were  about  as  large  as  a  saucer,  and  on  their  inner  edge  were 
thickly  set  with  hooks  or  claws  all  round  the  rim,  sharp  as  needles, 
and  almost  the  shape  and  size  of  a  tiger's. 

To  what  manner  of  awful  monster  this  portion  of  limb  belonged, 
I  could  only  faintly  imagine;  but  of  course  I  remembered,  as  any 
sailor  would,  that  from  my  earliest  sea-going  I  had  been  told  that 


ABNER'S  WHALE  301 

the  cuttle-fish  was  the  biggest  in  the  sea,  although  I  never  even 
began  to  think  it  might  be  true  until  now.  I  asked  the  mate  if  he 
had  ever  seen  such  creatures  as  this  piece  belonged  to  alive  and  kick- 
ing. He  answered,  languidly,  "  Wall,  I  guess  so;  but  I  don't  take  any 
stock  in  fish,  'cept  for  provisions  er  ile — en  thet's  a  fact."  It  will  be 
readily  believed  that  I  vividly  recalled  this  conversation  when,  many 
years  after,  I  read  an  account  by  the  Prince  of  Monaco  of  his  dis- 
covery of  a  gigantic  squid,  to  which  his  naturalist  gave  the  name  of 
Lepidoteuthis  Grimaldii!  Truly  the  indifference  and  apathy  mani- 
fested by  whalers  generally  to  everything  except  commercial  matters 
is  wonderful — hardly  to  be  credited.  However,  this  was  a  mighty 
revelation  to  me.  For  the  first  time,  it  was  possible  to  understand 
that,  contrary  to  the  usual  notion  of  a  whale's  being  unable  to  swallow 
a  herring,  here  was  a  kind  of  whale  that  could  swallow — well,  a  block 
four  or  five  feet  square  apparently ;  who  lived  upon  creatures  as  large 
as  himself,  if  one  might  judge  of  their  bulk  by  the  sample  to  hand; 
but  being  unable,  from  only  possessing  teeth  in  one  jaw,  to  masticate 
his  food,  was  compelled  to  tear  it  in  sizable  pieces,  bolt  it  whole,  and 
leave  his  commissariat  department  to  do  the  rest. 

While  thus  ruminating,  the  mate  and  Louis  began  a  desultory 
conversation  concerning  what  they  termed  "  ambergrease."  I  had 
never  even  heard  the  word  before,  although  I  had  a  notion  that  Milton, 
in  "  Paradise  Regained,  "  describing  the  Satanic  banquet,  had  spoken 
of  something  being  "  gris-amber  steamed."  They  could  by  no  means 
agree  as  to  what  this  mysterious  substance  was,  how  it  was  produced, 
or  under  what  conditions.  They  knew  that  it  was  sometimes  found 
floating  near  the  dead  body  of  a  sperm  whale — the  mate,  in  fact,  stated 
that  he  had  taken  it  once  from  the  rectum  of  a  cachalot — and  they 
were  certain  that  it  was  of  great  value — from  one  to  three  guineas 
per  ounce.  When  I  got  to  know  more  of  the  natural  history  of  the 
sperm  whale,  and  had  studied  the  literature  of  the  subject,  I  was  no 
longer  surprised  at  their  want  of  agreement,  since  the  learned  doctors 
who  have  written  upon  the  subject  do  not  seem  to  have  come  to 
definite  conclusions  either. 

By  some  it  is  supposed  to  be  the  product  of  a  diseased  condition 
of  the  creature;  others  consider  that  it  is  merely  the  excreta,  which, 
normally  fluid,  has  by  some  means  become  concreted.  It  is  nearly 
always  found  with  cuttle-fish  beaks  imbedded  in  its  substance,  show- 
ing that  these  indigestible  portions  of  the  sperm  whale's  food  have  in 


302  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

some  manner  become  mixed  with  it  during  its  formation  in  the  bowel. 
Chemists  have  analyzed  it  with  scanty  results.  Its  great  value  is  due 
to  its  property  of  intensifying  the  power  of  perfumes,  although, 
strange  to  say,  it  has  little  or  no  odor  of  its  own,  a  faint  trace  of  musk 
being  perhaps  detectable  in  some  cases. 

The  ship  now  neared  us  fast,  and  as  soon  as  she  rounded-to,  we 
left  the  whale  and  pulled  towards  her,  paying  out  line  as  we  went. 
Arriving  alongside,  the  line  was  handed  on  board,  and  in  a  short 
time  the  prize  was  hauled  to  the  gangway.  We  met  with  a  very 
different  reception  this  time.  The  skipper's  grim  face  actually 
looked  almost  pleasant  as  he  contemplated  the  colossal  proportions  of 
the  latest  addition  to  our  stock.  He  was  indeed  a  fine  catch,  being 
at  least  seventy  feet  long  and  in  splendid  condition.  As  soon  as  he  was 
secured  alongside  in  the  orthodox  fashion,  all  hands  were  sent  to 
dinner,  with  an  intimation  to  look  sharp  over  it.  Judging  from  our 
slight  previous  experience,  there  was  some  heavy  labor  before  us, 
for  this  whale  was  nearly  four  times  as  large  as  the  one  caught  off  the 
Cape  Verds.  And  it  was  so.  Verily  those  officers  toiled  like  Titans 
to  get  that  tremendous  head  off,  even  the  skipper  taking  a  hand.  In 
spite  of  their  efforts,  it  was  dark  before  the  heavy  job  was  done.  As 
we  were  in  no  danger  of  bad  weather,  the  head  was  dropped  astern 
by  a  hawser  until  morning,  when  it  would  be  safer  to  dissect  it.  All 
that  night  we  worked  incessantly,  ready  to  drop  with  fatigue,  but  not 
daring  to  suggest  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing.  Several  of  the 
officers  and  harpooners  were  allowed  a  few  hours  off,  as  their  special 
duty  of  dealing  with  the  head  at  daylight  would  be  so  arduous  as  to 
need  all  their  energies.  When  day  dawned  we  were  allowed  a  short 
rest,  while  the  work  of  cutting  up  the  head  was  undertaken  by  the 
rested  men  aft.  At  seven  bells  (7.30)  it  was  "  turn  to  "  all  hands 
again.  The  "  junk  "  was  hooked  on  to  both  cutting  tackles,  and  the 
windlass  manned  by  everybody  who  could  get  hold.  Slowly  the 
enormous  mass  rose,  canting  the  ship  heavily  as  it  came,  while  every 
stick  and  rope  aloft  complained  of  the  great  strain  upon  them.  When 
at  last  it  was  safely  shipped,  and  the  tackles  cast  off,  the  size  of  this 
small  portion  of  a  full-grown  cachalot's  body  could  be  realized, 
not  before. 

It  was  hauled  from  the  gangway  by  tackles,  and  securely  lashed 


ABNER'S  WHALE  303 

to  the  rail  running  round  beneath  the  top  of  the  bulwarks  for  that 
purpose — the  "  lash-rail  " — where  the  top  of  it  towered  up  as  high 
as  the  third  ratline  of  the  main-rigging.  Then  there  was  another 
spell,  while  the  "  case  "  was  separated  from  the  skull.  This  was  too 
large  to  get  on  board,  so  it  was  lifted  half-way  out  of  the  water 
by  the  tackles,  one  hooked  on  each  side;  then  they  were  made 
fast,  and  a  spar  rigged  across  them  at  a  good  height  above  the  top 
of  the  case.  A  small  block  was  lashed  to  this  spar,  through  which  a 
line  was  rove.  A  long,  narrow  bucket  was  attached  to  one  end  of 
this  rope;  the  other  end  on  deck  was  attended  by  two  men.  One 
unfortunate  beggar  was  perched  aloft  on  the  above-mentioned  spar, 
where  his  position,  like  the  mainyard  of  Marryatt's  verbose  carpenter, 
was  "  precarious  and  not  at  all  permanent."  He  was  provided  with 
a  pole,  with  which  he  pushed  the  bucket  down  through  a  hole  cut 
in  the  upper  end  of  the  "  case,"  whence  it  was  drawn  out  by  the  chaps 
on  deck  full  of  spermaceti.  It  was  a  weary,  unsatisfactory  process, 
wasting  a  great  deal  of  the  substance  being  baled  out;  but  no  other 
way  was  apparently  possible.  The  grease  blew  about,  drenching 
most  of  us  engaged  in  an  altogether  unpleasant  fashion,  while,  to 
mend  matters,  the  old  barky  began  to  roll  and  tumble  about  in  an 
aimless,  drunken  sort  of  way,  the  result  of  a  new  cross  swell  rolling 
up  from  the  south  westward.  As  the  stuff  was  gained,  it  was  poured 
into  large  tanks  in  the  blubber-room,  the  quantity  being  too  great  to 
be  held  by  the  try-pots  at  once.  Twenty-five  barrels  of  this  clear, 
wax-like  substance  were  baled  from  that  case;  and  when  at  last  it  was 
lowered  a  little,  and  cut  away  from  its  supports,  it  was  impossible  to 
help  thinking  that  much  was  still  remaining  within  which  we,  with 
such  rude  means,  were  unable  to  save.  Then  came  the  task  of  cut- 
ting up  the  junk.  Layer  after  layer,  eight  to  ten  inches  thick,  was 
sliced  off,  cut  into  suitable  pieces,  and  passed  into  the  tanks.  So 
full  was  the  matter  of  spermaceti  that  one  could  take  a  piece  as  large 
as  one's  head  in  the  hands,  and  squeeze  it  like  a  sponge,  expressing 
the  spermaceti  in  showers,  until  nothing  remained  but  a  tiny  ball  of 
fiber.  All  this  soft,  pulpy  mass  was  held  together  by  walls  of  ex- 
ceedingly tough,  gristly  integument  ("white  horse"),  which  was  as 
difficult  to  cut  as  gutta-percha,  and,  but  for  the  peculiar  texture,  not 
at  all  unlike  it. 


304  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

When  we  had  finished  separating  the  junk,  there  was  nearly  a  foot 
of  oil  on  deck  in  the  waist,  and  uproarious  was  the  laughter  when 
some  hapless  individual,  losing  his  balance,  slid  across  the  deck  and 
sat  down  with  a  loud  splash  in  the  deepest  part  of  the  accumulation. 

The  lower  jaw  of  this  whale  measured  exactly  nineteen  feet  in 
length  from  the  opening  of  the  mouth,  or,  say  the  last  of  the  teeth,  to 
the  point,  and  carried  twenty-eight  teeth  on  each  side.  For  the  time, 
it  was  hauled  aft  out  of  the  way,  and  secured  to  the  lash-rail.  The 
subsequent  proceedings  were  just  the  same  as  before  described,  only 
more  so.  For  a  whole  week  our  labors  continued,  and  when  they  were 
over  we  had  stowed  below  a  hundred  and  forty-six  barrels  of  mingled 
oil  and  spermaceti,  or  fourteen  and  a  half  tuns. 

It  was  really  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  Abner  receiving,  as  if  being 
invested  with  an  order  of  merit,  the  twenty  pounds  of  tobacco  to 
which  he  was  entitled.  Poor  fellow!  he  felt  as  if  at  last  he  were  going 
to  be  thought  a  little  of,  and  treated  a  little  better.  He  brought  his 
bounty  forrard,  and  shared  it  out  as  far  as  it  would  go  with  the  great- 
est delight  and  good  nature  possible.  Whatever  he  might  have  been 
thought  of  aft,  certainly,  for  the  time,  he  was  a  very  important  per- 
sonage forrard ;  even  the  Portuguese,  who  were  inclined  to  be  jealous 
of  what  they  considered  an  infringement  of  their  rights,  were  molli- 
fied by  the  generosity  shown. 

After  every  sign  of  the  operations  had  been  cleared  away,  the 
jaw  was  brought  out,  and  the  teeth  extracted  with  a  small  tackle. 
They  were  set  solidly  into  a  hard  white  gum,  which  had  to  be  cut 
away  all  around  them  before  they  would  come  out.  When  cleaned 
of  the  gum,  they  were  headed  up  in  a  small  barrel  of  brine.  The 
great  jaw-pans  were  sawn  off,  and  placed  at  the  disposal  of  anybody 
who  wanted  pieces  of  bone  for  "  scrimshaw,"  or  carved  work.  This 
is  a  very  favorite  pastime  on  board  whalers,  though,  in  ships  such  as 
ours,  the  crew  have  little  opportunity  for  doing  anything,  hardly  any 
leisure  during  daylight  being  allowed.  But  our  carpenter  was  a 
famous  workman  at  "  scrimshaw,"  and  he  started  half  a  dozen  walk- 
ing-sticks forthwith.  A  favorite  design  is  to  carve  the  bone  into  the 
similitude  of  a  rope,  with  "  worming  "  of  smaller  line  along  its  lays. 
A  handle  is  caved  out  of  a  whale's  tooth,  and  insets  of  baleen,  silver, 
cocoa-tree,  or  ebony,  give  variety  and  finish.  The  tools  used  are  of 
the  roughest.  Some  old  files,  softened  in  the  fire,  and  filed  into 


ABNER'S  WHALE  305 

grooves  something  like  saw-teeth,  are  most  used;  but  old  knives, 
sail-needles,  and  chisels  are  pressed  into  service.  The  work  turned 
out  would,  in  many  cases,  take  a  very  high  place  in  an  exhibition  of 
turnery,  though  never  a  lathe  was  near  it.  Of  course,  a  long  time  is 
taken  over  it,  especially  the  polishing,  which  is  done  with  oil  and 
whiting,  if  it  can  be  got — powdered  pumice  if  it  cannot.  I  once  had 
an  elaborate  pastry-cutter  carved  out  of  six  whale's  teeth,  which  I 
purchased  for  a  pound  of  tobacco  from  a  seaman  of  the  Coral  whaler, 
and  afterwards  sold  in  Dunedin,  New  Zealand,  for  £2  10s.,  the  pur- 
chaser being  decidedly  of  opinion  that  he  had  a  bargain. 


20 


THE  SALMON 
BY  REX  BEACH 

"  I  DARE  say  Kalvik  is  rather  lively  during  the  summer  season," 
Emerson  remarked  to  Cherry. 

"  Yes;  the  ships  arrive  in  May,  and  the  fish  begin  to  run  in  July. 
After  that  nobody  sleeps." 

"  It  must  be  rather  interesting,"  he  observed. 

"It  is  more  than  that;  it  is  inspiring.  Why,  the  story  of  the  salmon 
is  an  epic  in  itself.  You  know  they  live  in  a  cycle  of  four  years,  no 
more,  always  returning  to  the  waters  of  their  nativity  to  die;  and  I 
have  heard  it  said  that  during  one  of  those  four  years  they  disap- 
pear, no  one  knows  where,  reappearing  out  of  the  mysterious  depths 
of  the  sea  as  if  at  a  signal.  They  come  by  the  legion,  in  countless 
scores  of  thousands;  and  when  once  they  have  tasted  the  waters  of 
their  birth  they  never  touch  food  again,  never  cease  their  onward 
rush  until  they  become  bruised  and  battered  wrecks,  drifting  down 
from  the  spawning-beds.  When  the  call  of  nature  is  answered  and 
the  spawn  is  laid,  they  die.  They  never  seek  the  salt  sea  again,  but 
carpet  the  river  with  their  bones.  When  they  feel  the  homing  impulse 
they  come  from  the  remotest  depths,  heading  unerringly  for  the  par- 
ticular parent  stream  whence  they  originated.  If  sand-bars  should 
block  their  course  in  dry  seasons  or  obstacles  intercept  them,  they 
will  hurl  themselves  out  of  the  water  in  an  endeavor  to  get  across. 
They  may  disregard  a  thousand  rivers,  one  by  one;  but  when  they 
finally  taste  the  sweet  currents  which  flow  from  their  birthplaces  their 
whole  nature  changes,  and  even  their  physical  features  alter:  they 
grow  thin,  and  the  head  takes  on  the  sinister  curve  of  the  prey- 
ing bird." 

"  I  had  no  idea  they  acted  that  way,"  said  Boyd.  "  You  paint  a 
vivid  picture." 

"  That's  because  they  interest  me.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  these 
fisheries  are  more  fascinating  than  any  place  I've  ever  seen.  Why, 
you  just  ought  to  witness  the  l  run.'  These  empty  waters  become  sud- 
denly crowded,  and  the  fish  come  in  a  great  silver  horde,  which  races 
up,  up,  up  toward  death  and  obliteration.  They  come  with  the  vio- 
306 


THE  SALMON  307 

lence  of  a  summer  storm ;  like  a  prodigious  gleaming  army  they  swarm 
and  bend  forward,  eager,  undeviating,  one-purposed.  It's  quite  im- 
possible to  describe  it — this  great  silver  horde.  They  are  entirely 
defenceless,  of  course,  and  almost  every  living  thing  preys  upon  them. 
The  birds  congregate  in  millions,  the  four-footed  beasts  come  down 
from  the  hills,  the  Apaches  of  the  sea  harry  them  in  dense  droves, 
and  even  man  appears  from  distant  coasts  to  take  his  toll;  but  still 
they  pass  bravely  on.  The  clank  of  machinery  makes  the  hills 
rumble,  the  hiss  of  steam  and  the  sighs  of  the  soldering-furnaces  are 
like  the  complaint  of  some  giant  overgorging  himself.  The  river 
swarms  with  the  fleets  of  fish-boats,  which  skim  outward  with  the 
dawn  to  flit  homeward  again  at  twilight  and  settle  like  a  vast  brood 
of  white-winged  gulls.  Men  let  the  hours  go  by  unheeded,  and  for- 
get to  sleep." 

"  What  sort  of  men  do  they  hire?  " 

"  Chinese,  Japs,  and  Italians,  mainly.  It's  like  a  foreign  country 
here,  only  there  are  no  women.  The  bunk-rooms  are  filled  with 
opium  fumes  and  noisy  with  clacking  tongues.  On  one  side  of  the 
village  streets  the  Orientals  burn  incense  to  their  Joss,  across  the 
way  the  Latins  worship  the  Virgin.  They  work  side  by  side  all  day 
until  they  are  ready  to  drop." 

"  How  long  does  it  all  last?  " 

"  Only  about  six  weeks;  then  the  furnace  fires  die  out,  the  ships 
are  loaded,  the  men  go  to  sleep,  and  the  breezes  waft  them  out  into 
the  August  haze,  after  which  Kalvik  sags  back  into  its  ten  months' 
coma,  becoming,  as  you  see  it  now,  a  dead,  deserted  village,  shunned 
by  man." 

"  Jove!  you  have  a  graphic  tongue,"  said  Emerson  appreciatively. 
"  But  I  don't  see  how  those  huge  plants  can  pay  for  their  upkeep 
with  such  a  short  run." 

"  Well,  they  do;  and,  what's  more,  they  pay  tremendously;  some- 
times a  hundred  per  cent,  a  year  or  more." 

"  Impossible!  "  Emerson  was  now  thoroughly  aroused,  and 
Cherry  continued: 

"  Two  years  ago  a  ship  sailed  into  port  in  early  May  loaded  with 
an  army  of  men,  with  machinery,  lumber,  coal,  and  so  forth.  They 
landed,  built  the  plant,  and  had  it  ready  to  operate  by  the  time  the 
run  started.  They  made  their  catch,  and  sailed  away  again  in  August 
with  enough  salmon  in  the  hold  to  pay  twice  over  for  the  whole  thing. 


308  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Willis  Marsh  did  even  better  than  that  the  year  before,  but  of  course 
the  price  of  fish  was  high  then.  Next  season  will  be  another  big  year." 

"  How  is  that?  " 

"  Every  fourth  season  the  run  is  large;  nobody  knows  why.  Every 
time  there  is  a  Presidential  election  the  fish  are  shy  and  very  scarce; 
that  lifts  prices.  Every  year  in  which  a  President  of  the  United 
States  is  inaugurated  they  are  plentiful." 

Boyd  laughed.  "  The  Alaska  salmon  takes  more  interest  in 
politics  than  I  do.  I  wonder  if  he  is  a  Republican  or  Democrat?  " 

"  Inasmuch  as  he  is  a  red  salmon,  I  dare  say  you'd  call  him  a 
Socialist,"  laughed  Cherry. 

Emerson  rose,  and  began  to  pace  back  and  forth.  "  And  you 
mean  to  say  the  history  of  the  other  canneries  is  the  same?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  I  had  no  idea  there  were  such  profits  in  the  fisheries  up  here." 

"  Nobody  knows  it  outside  of  those  interested.  The  Kalvik  River 
is  the  most  wonderful  salmon  river  in  the  world,  for  it  has  never  failed 
once;  that's  why  the  Companies  guard  it  so  jealously;  that's  why 
they  denied  you  shelter.  You  see,  it  is  set  away  off  here  in  one 
corner  of  Behring  Sea  without  means  of  communication  or  access, 
and  they  intend  to  keep  it  so." 


The  main  body  of  salmon  struck  the  Kalvik  River  on  the  first 
day  of  July.  For  a  week  past  the  run  had  been  slowly  growing, 
while  the  canneries  tested  themselves;  but  on  the  opening  day  of  the 
new  month  the  horde  issued  boldly  forth  from  the  depths  of  the  sea, 
and  the  battle  began  in  earnest.  They  came  during  the  hush  of  the 
dawn,  a  mad,  crowding  throng  from  No  Man's  Land,  to  wake  the 
tide-rips  and  people  the  shimmering  reaches  of  the  bay,  lashing  them 
to  sudden  life  and  fury.  Outside,  the  languorous  ocean  heaved  as 
smiling  and  serene  as  ever,  but  within  the  harbor  a  wondrous 
change  occurred. 

As  if  in  answer  to  some  deep-sea  signal,  the  tides  were  quickened 
by  a  coursing  multitude,  steadfast  and  unafraid,  yet  foredoomed  to 
die  by  the  hand  of  man,  or  else  more  surely  by  the  serving  of  their 
destiny.  Gad  in  their  argent  mail  of  blue  and  green,  they  worked 
the  bay  to  madness;  they  overwhelmed  the  waters,  surging  forward 
in  great  droves  and  columns,  hesitating  only  long  enough  to  frolic 


THE  SALMON  309 

with  the  shifting  currents,  as  if  rejoicing  in  their  strength  and  beauty. 

At  times  they  swam  with  cleaving  fins  exposed;  again  they 
churned  the  placid  waters  until  swift  combers  raced  across  the  shal- 
low bars  like  tidal  waves,  while  the  deeper  channels  were  shot 
through  with  the  shadowy  forms  or  pierced  by  the  lightning  glint  of 
silvered  bellies.  They  streamed  in  with  the  flood  tide  to  retreat  again 
with  the  ebb,  but  there  was  neither  haste  nor  caution  in  their  progress; 
they  had  come  in  answer  to  the  breeding  call  of  the  sea,  and  its 
exultation  was  upon  them,  driving  them  relentlessly  onward.  They 
had  no  voice  against  its  overmastering  spell. 

Mustering  in  the  early  light  like  a  swarm  of  giant  white-winged 
moths,  the  fishing-boats  raced  forth  with  the  flowing  tide,  urged  by 
sweep  and  sail  and  lusty  sinews.  Paying  out  their  hundred-fathom 
nets,  they  drifted  over  the  banks  like  flocks  of  resting  sea-gulls,  only 
to  come  ploughing  back  again  deep  laden  with  their  spoils.  Grimy 
tugboats  lay  beside  the  traps,  shrilling  the  air  with  creaking  winches 
as  they  "  brailed  "  the  struggling  fish,  a  half-ton  at  a  time,  from  the 
"  pounds,"  now  churned  to  milky  foam  by  the  ever-growing  throng 
of  prisoners;  and  all  the  time  the  big  plants  gulped  the  sea  harvest, 
faster  and  faster,  clanking  and  gnashing  their  metal  jaws,  while  the 
mounds  of  salmon  lay  hip-deep  to  the  crews  that  fed  the  butch- 
ering machines. 

The  Iron  Chink,  or  mechanical  cleaner,  is  perhaps  the  most  in- 
genious of  the  many  labor-saving  devices  used  in  the  salmon  fisheries. 
It  is  an  awkward-looking,  yet  very  effective  contrivance  of  revolving 
knives  and  conveyors  which  seizes  the  fish  whole  and  delivers  it 
cleaned,  clipped,  cut,  and  ready  to  be  washed.  With  superhuman 
dexterity  it  does  the  work  of  twenty  lightning-like  butchers. 

The  time  had  come  for  man  to  take  his  toll. 

Now  dawned  a  period  of  feverish  activity  wherein  no  one  might 
rest  short  of  actual  exhaustion.  Haste  became  the  cry,  and  com- 
fort fled. 

Big  George,  when  he  had  fully  grasped  the  situation,  became  the 
boss  fisherman  on  the  instant;  before  the  others  had  reached  the 
cook-house  he  was  busied  in  laying  out  his  crews  and  distributing  his 
gear.  That  night  the  floors  of  the  fish-dock  groaned  beneath  a  weight 
of  silver-sided  salmon  piled  waist-high  to  a  tall  man.  All  through 
the  cool,  dim-lit  hours  the  ranks  of  Chinese  butchers  hacked  and 
slit  and  slashed  with  swift,  sure,  tireless  strokes,  while  the  great  build- 


310  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ing  echoed  hollowly  to  the  clank  of  machines  and  the  hissing  sighs  of 
the  soldering-furnaces.  There  before  him  were  thousands  of  salmon. 
They  were  strewn  in  a  great  mass  upon  the  dock  and  inside  the  shed, 
while  from  the  scow  beneath  they  came  in  showers  as  the  handlers 
tossed  them  upward  from  their  pues.  Through  the  wide  doors  he 
saw  the  backs  of  the  butchers  busily  at  work  over  their  tables,  and 
heard  the  uproar  of  the  cannery  running  full  for  the  first  time. 

"  Where  did  those  fish  come  from?  "  Emerson  asked. 

"  From  the  trap."  George  smiled  as  he  had  not  smiled  in  many 
weeks.  "  They've  struck  in  like  I  knew  they  would,  and  they're 
running  now  by  the  thousands.  I've  fished  these  waters  for  years, 
but  I  never  seen  the  likes  of  it.  They'll  tear  that  trap  to  pieces. 
They're  smothering  in  the  pot,  tons  and  tons  of  'em,  with  millions 
more  milling  below  the  leads  because  they  can't  get  in.  It's  a  sight 
you'll  not  see  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  That  means  that  we  can  run  the  plant — that  we'll  get  all  we 
can  use?  " 

"Yes!  We've  got  fish  enough  to  run  two  canneries.  They've 
struck  their  gait  I  tell  you,  and  they'll  never  stop  now  night  or  day 
till  they're  through.  We  don't  need  no  gill-netters ;  what  we  need 
is  butchers  and  slimers  and  handlers.  There  never  was  a  trap  site 
in  the  North  till  this  one."  He  flung  out  a  long,  hairy  arm,  bared 
half  to  the  shoulder,  and  waved  it  exultantly.  "  We  built  this  plant 
to  cook  forty  thousand  salmon  a  day,  but  I'll  bring  you  three  thou- 
sand every  hour,  and  you've  got  to  cook  'em.  Do  you  hear?  We've 
won,  my  boy!  We've  won!  " 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT 
BY  HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT 

IN  the  making  of  the  Desert  the  canyon  carving,  delta-building 
river  did  not  count  the  centuries  of  its  labor;  the  rock-hewing,  beach- 
forming  waves  did  not  number  the  ages  of  their  toil;  the  burning, 
constant  sun  and  the  drying,  drifting  winds  were  not  careful  for 
the  years. 

Somewhere  in  the  eternity  that  lies  back  of  all  the  yesterdays, 
the  great  river  found  the  salt  waves  of  the  ocean  fathoms  deep  in 
what  is  now  the  King's  Basin  and  extending  a  hundred  and  seventy 
miles  north  of  the  shore  that  takes  their  wash  to-day.  Slowly,  through 
the  centuries  of  that  age  of  all  beginnings,  the  river,  cutting  canyons 
and  valleys  in  the  north  and  carrying  southward  its  load  of  silt, 
built  from  the  east  across  the  gulf  to  Lone  Mountain  a  mighty 
delta  dam. 

South  of  this  new  land  the  ocean  still  received  the  river;  to  the 
north  the  gulf  became  an  inland  sea.  The  upper  edge  of  this  new- 
born sea  beat  helpless  against  a  line  of  low,  barren  hills  beyond 
which  lay  many  miles  of  a  rainless  land.  Eastward  lay  yet  more 
miles  of  desolate  waste.  And  between  this  sea  and  the  parent  ocean 
on  the  west,  extending  southward  past  the  delta  dam,  the  mountains 
of  the  Coast  Range  shut  out  every  moisture-laden  cloud  and  turned 
back  every  life-bearing  stream.  Thus  trapped  and  helpless,  the 
bright  waters,  with  all  their  life,  fell  under  the  constant,  fierce,  beat- 
ing rays  of  the  semi-tropical  sun  and  shrank  from  the  wearing  sweep 
of  the  dry,  tireless  winds.  Uncounted  still,  the  centuries  of  that  age 
also  passed  and  the  bottom  of  that  sea  lay  bare,  dry  and  lifeless 
under  the  burning  sky,  still  beaten  by  the  pitiless  sun,  still  swept 
by  the  scorching  winds.  The  place  that  had  held  the  glad  waters 
with  their  teeming  life  came  to  be  an  empty  basin  of  blinding  sand, 
of  quivering  heat,  of  dreadful  death.  Unheeding  the  ruin  it  had 
wrought,  the  river  swept  on  its  way. 

And  so — hemmed  in  by  mountain  wall,  barren  hills  and 
rainless  plains;  forgotten  by  the  ocean;  deserted  by  the  river, 

311 


312  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

that  thirsty  land  lay,  the  loneliest,  most  desolate  bit  of  this  great 
Western  Continent. 

But  the  river  could  not  work  this  ruin  without  contributing  to 
the  desert  the  rich  strength  it  had  gathered  from  its  tributary  lands. 
Mingled  with  the  sand  of  the  ancient  sea-bed  was  the  silt  from  far- 
away mountain  and  hill  and  plain.  That  basin  of  Death  was  more 
than  a  dusty  tomb  of  a  life  that  had  been;  it  was  a  sepulchre  that 
held  the  vast  treasure  of  a  life  that  would  be — would  be  when  the 
ages  should  have  made  also  the  master  men,  who  would  dare  say  to 
the  river:  "  Make  restitution!  " — men  who  could,  with  power,  com- 
mand the  rich  life  within  the  tomb  to  come  forth. 

But  master  men  are  not  the  product  of  years — scarcely,  indeed, 
of  centuries.  The  master  passions,  the  governing  instincts,  the  lead- 
ing desires  and  the  driving  fears  that  hew  and  carve  and  form  and 
fashion  the  race  are  as  reckless  of  the  years  as  are  wave  and  river 
and  sun  and  wind.  Therefore,  the  forgotten  land  held  its  wealth  until 
Time  should  make  the  giants  that  could  take  it. 

In  the  centuries  of  those  forgotten  ages  that  went  into  the 
making  of  The  King's  Basin  Desert,  the  families  of  men  grew 
slowly  into  tribes,  the  tribes  grew  slowly  into  nations  and  the  nations 
grew  slowly  into  worlds.  New  worlds  became  old;  and  other  new 
worlds  were  discovered,  explored,  developed  and  made  old;  war  and 
famine  and  pestilence  and  prosperity  hewed  and  formed,  carved 
and  built  and  fashioned,  even  as  wave  and  river  and  sun  and  wind. 
The  kingdoms  of  earth,  air  and  water  yielded  up  their  wealth  as 
men  grew  strong  to  take  it;  the  elements  bowed  their  necks  to  his 
yoke,  to  fetch  and  carry  for  him  as  he  grew  wise  to  order;  the  wilder- 
ness fled,  the  mountains  lay  bare  their  hearts,  the  waste  places  paid 
tribute  as  he  grew  brave  to  command. 

Across  the  wide  continent  the  tracks  of  its  wild  life  were  trodden 
out  by  the  broad  cattle  trails,  the  paths  of  the  herds  were  marked 
by  the  wheels  of  immigrant  wagons  and  the  roads  of  the  slow-moving 
teams  became  swift  highways  of  steel.  In  the  East  the  great  cities 
that  received  the  hordes  from  every  land  were  growing  ever  greater. 
On  the  far  west  coast  the  crowded  multitude  was  building  even  as 
it  was  building  in  the  East.  In  the  Southwest  savage  race  suc- 
ceeded savage  race,  until  at  last  the  slow-footed  padres  overtook 
the  swift-footed  Indian  and  the  rude  civilization  made  possible  by 
the  priests  in  turn  ran  down  the  priest. 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT  313 

About  the  land  of  my  story,  forgotten  under  the  dry  sky,  this 
ever-restless,  ever-swelling  tide  of  life  swirled  and  eddied — swirled 
and  eddied,  but  touched  it  not.  On  the  west  it  swept  even  to  the 
foot  of  the  grim  mountain  wall.  On  the  east  one  far-flung  ripple 
reached  even  to  the  river — when  Rubio  City  was  born.  But  the 
Desert  waited,  silent  and  hot  and  fierce  in  its  desolation,  holding  its 
treasures  under  the  seal  of  death  against  the  coming  of  the  strong 
ones;  waited  until  the  man-making  forces  that  wrought  through 
those  long  ages  should  have  done  also  their  work;  waited  for  this 
age — for  your  age  and  mine — for  the  age  of  the  Seer  and  his  com- 
panions— for  the  days  of  my  story,  the  days  of  Barbara  and 
her  friends. 


The  Seer's  expedition,  returning  from  the  south,  made  camp  on 
the  bank  of  the  Rio  Colorado  twenty  miles  below  Rubio  City.  It 
was  the  last  night  out.  Supper  was  over,  and  the  men,  with  their 
pipes  and  cigarettes,  settled  themselves  in  various  careless  attitudes 
of  repose  after  the  long  day.  Their  sunburned  faces,  toughened  fig- 
ures and  worn,  desert-stained  clothing  testified  to  their  weeks  of  toil 
in  the  open  air  under  the  dry  sky  of  an  almost  rainless  land.  Some 
were  old-timers — veterans  of  many  a  similar  campaign.  Two  were 
new  recruits  on  their  first  trip.  All  were  strong,  clean-cut,  vigorous 
specimens  of  intelligent,  healthy  manhood,  for  in  all  professions,  not 
excepting  the  army  and  navy,  there  can  be  found  no  finer  body  of 
men  than  our  civil  engineers. 

Day  after  day  they  rode  from  sunrise  until  dark;  studying  the  land, 
estimating  distances  and  grades,  observing  the  courses  of  the  chan- 
nels cut  by  the  overflow  and  the  marks  of  high  water,  noting  the 
character  of  the  soil  and  vegetation;  sometimes  together,  sometimes 
separated ;  with  Jose  to  select  their  camping  places  and  to  help  them 
with  his  Indian  knowledge  of  the  country. 

And  always  at  night,  after  the  long  hard  day,  when  supper — 
cooked  by  their  own  hands — was  over,  with  pipe  and  cigarettes  they 
reviewed  their  observations  and  compared  notes,  summing  up  the 
results  before  rolling  in  their  blankets  to  sleep  under  the  stars. 

Some  day,  perhaps,  when  the  world  is  much  older  and  very  much 
wiser,  Civilization  will  erect  a  proper  monument  to  the  memory  of 
such  men  as  these.  But  just  now  Civilization  is  too  greedily  quar- 


314  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

reling  over  its  newly  acquired  wealth  to  acknowledge  its  debt  of  honor 
to  those  who  made  this  wealth  possible. 

But  the  Seer  and  his  companion  concerned  themselves  with  no 
such  thoughts  as  these.  They  thought  only  of  the  possibility  of  con- 
verting the  thousands  of  acres  of  The  King's  Basin  Desert  into  pro- 
ductive farms.  For  this  they  conceived  to  be  their  work. 

They  had  worked  across  the  Basin  to  Lone  Mountain  and  back 
to  the  river  to  a  point  pearly  opposite  the  clump  of  cottonwoods  where 
they  had  left  the  expedition.  To-morrow  night  they  would  be  in 
Rubio  City. 

"  Abe,"  said  the  Seer,  "  our  intake  would  go  in  right  here.  We 
could  follow  the  old  channel  of  Dry  River,  with  our  canal  about 
twenty  miles  out,  put  in  a  heading  and  lead  off  our  mains  and  laterals." 


The  party  that  was  to  make  the  first  survey  in  the  Desert  was 
being  formed  and  equipped  under  the  direction  of  Abe  Lee.  Horses, 
mules,  wagons,  camp  outfits  and  supplies,  with  Indian  and  Mexican 
laborers,  teamsters  of  several  nationalities  and  here  and  there  a 
Chinese  cook,  were  assembled.  Toward  the  last  from  every  part 
of  the  great  Western  country  came  the  surveyors  and  engineers — 
sunburned,  khaki-clad  men  most  of  them,  toughened  by  their  out-of- 
door  life,  overflowing  with  health  and  good  spirits.  They  hailed  one 
another  joyously  and  greeted  Abe  with  extravagant  delight,  over- 
whelming him  with  questions.  For  the  word  had  gone  out  that  the 
Seer,  beloved  by  all  the  tribe,  and  his  lieutenant,  almost  equally  be- 
loved, were  making  "  big  medicine  "  in  The  King's  Basin  Desert. 
Not  a  man  of  them  would  have  exchanged  his  chance  to  go  for  a 
crown  and  sceptre. 

Slowly,  day  by  day,  the  surveying  party  under  the  Seer  pushed 
deeper  and  deeper  into  the  awful  desolation  of  The  King's  Basin 
Desert.  They  were  the  advance  force  of  a  mighty  army  ordered 
ahead  by  Good  Business — the  master  passion  of  the  race.  Their 
duty  was  to  learn  the  strength  of  the  enemy,  to  measure  its  resources, 
to  spy  out  its  weaknesses  and  to  gather  data  upon  which  a  campaign 
would  be  planned. 

Under  the  Seer  the  expedition  was  divided  into  several  smaller 
parties,  each  of  which  was  assigned  to  certain  defined  districts. 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT  315 

Here  and  there,  at  seemingly  careless  intervals  in  the  wide  expanse, 
the  white  tents  of  the  division  camps  shone  through  the  many  col- 
ored veils  of  the  desert.  Tall,  thin  colmuns  of  dust  lifted  into  the 
sky  from  the  water  wagons  that  crawled  ceaselessly  from  water  hole 
to  camp  and  from  camp  to  water  hole — hung  in  long  clouds  above 
the  supply  train  laboring  heavily  across  the  dun  plain  to  and  from 
Rubio  City — or  rose  in  quick  puffs  and  twisting  spirals  from  the  feet 
of  some  saddle  horse  bearing  a  messenger  from  the  Chief  to  some 
distant  lieutenant. 

Every  morning,  from  each  of  the  camps,  squads  of  khaki-clad 
men  bearing  transit  and  level,  stake  and  pole  and  flag — the  weapons 
of  their  warfare — put  out  in  different  directions  into  the  vast  silence 
that  seemed  to  engulf  them.  Every  evening  the  squads  returned, 
desert-stained  and  weary,  to  their  rest  under  the  lonesome  stars. 
Every  morning  the  sun  broke  fiercely  up  from  the  long  level  of  the 
eastward  plain  to  pour  its  hot  strength  down  upon  these  pigmy  crea- 
tures, who  dared  to  invade  the  territory  over  which  he  had,  for  so 
many  ages,  held  undisputed  dominion.  Every  evening  the  sun 
plunged  fiercely  down  behind  the  purple  wall  of  mountains  that  shut 
in  the  Basin  on  the  west,  as  if  to  gather  strength  in  some  nether 
world  for  to-morrow's  fight. 

Always  there  was  the  same  flood  of  white  light  from  the  deep, 
dry  sky  that  was  uncrossed  by  shred  of  cloud ;  always  the  same  wide, 
tawny  waste,  harshly  glaring  near  at  hand — filled  with  awful  mys- 
teries under  the  many  colored  mists  of  the  distance;  until  the  eyes 
ached  and  the  soul  cried  out  in  wonder  at  it  all.  Always  there  were 
the  same  deep  nights,  with  the  lonely  stars  so  far  away  in  the  velvet 
purple  darkness;  the  soft  breathing  of  the  desert;  the  pungent  smell 
of  greasewood  and  salt-bush ;  the  weird,  quavering  call  of  the  ground 
owl;  or  the  wild  coyote  chorus,  as  if  the  long  lost  spirits  of  long 
ago  savage  races  cried  out  a  dreadful  warning  to  these  invaders. 

And  in  all  of  this  the  land  made  itself  felt  against  these  men  in 
the  silent  menace,  the  still  waiting,  the  subtle  call,  the  promise,  the 
threat  and  the  challenge  of  La  Palma  de  la  Mano  de  Dios. 

These  lines  of  stakes  that  every  day  stretched  farther  and  farther 
into  and  across  the  waste  seemed,  in  the  wideness  of  the  land,  piti- 
fully foolish.  Looking  back  over  the  lines,  the  men  who  set  them 
could  scarcely  distinguish  the  way  they  had  come.  But  they  knew 


316  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

that  the  stakes  were  there.  They  knew  that  some  day  that  other, 
mightier  company,  the  main  army,  would  move  along  the  way  they 
had  marked  to  meet  the  strength  of  the  barren  waste  with  the 
strength  of  the  great  river  and  take  for  the  race  the  wealth  of  the 
land.  The  sound  of  human  voices  was  flat  and  ineffectual  in  that 
age-old  solitude,  but  the  speakers  knew  that  following  their  feeble 
voices  would  come  the  shouting,  ringing,  thundering  chorus  of  the 
life  that  was  to  follow  them  into  that  silent  land  of  death. 

Somewhere  in  those  forgotten  ages  that  went  into  the  making  of 
The  King's  Basin  Desert,  a  company  of  free-born  citizens  of  the  land, 
moved  by  that  master  passion — Good  Business — found  their  way  to 
the  banks  of  the  Colorado.  In  time  Good  Business  led  them  to  build 
their  pueblos  and  to  cultivate  their  fields  by  irrigation  with  water 
from  the  river  and  erect  their  rude  altars  to  their  now  long-forgotten 
gods.  Driven  by  the  same  passion  that  drove  the  Indians,  the 
emigrant  wagons  moved  toward  the  new  gold  country,  and  some 
financial  genius  saw  Good  Business  at  the  river-crossing  near  the  site 
of  the  ancient  city.  At  first  it  was  no  more  than  a  ferry,  but  soon 
others  with  eyes  for  profit  established  a  trading  point  where  the 
overland  voyagers  could  replenish  their  stock  of  supplies,  sure  to  be 
low  after  the  hundreds  of  miles  across  the  wide  plains.  Then  also, 
in  obedience  to  Good  Business,  pleasures  heard  the  call,  saloons, 
gambling  houses  and  dance  halls  appeared,  and  for  profit  the  joys 
of  civilization  arrived  in  the  savage  land.  Good  Business  sent  the 
prospectors  who  found  the  mines,  the  capital  that  developed  them 
and  the  laborers  who  dug  the  ore.  Good  Business  sent  the  cattle 
barons  and  their  cowboys,  sent  the  speculators  and  the  pioneer 
merchants.  Good  Business  sent  also,  in  the  fullness  of  time, 
Jefferson  Worth. 

Of  old  New  England  Puritan  stock,  Worth  had  come  through  the 
hard  life  of  a  poor  farm  boy  with  two  dominant  elements  in  his 
character:  an  almost  superhuman  instinct  for  Good  Business,  in- 
herited no  doubt,  and  an  instinct,  also  inherited,  for  religion.  The 
instinct  for  trade,  from  much  cultivation,  had  waxed  strong  and 
stronger  with  the  years.  The  religion  that  he  had  from  his  fore- 
fathers was  become  little  more  than  a  superstition.  It  was  his  genius 
for  business  that  led  him,  in  his  young  manhood,  to  leave  the  farm, 
and  it  was  inevitable  that  from  making  money  he  should  come  to 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT  317 

making  money  make  more  money.  It  was  the  other  dominant  ele- 
ment in  his  character  that  kept  him  scrupulously  honest,  scrupu- 
lously moral.  Besides  this,  honesty  and  morality  were  also 
"  good  business." 

Seeking  always  larger  opportunities  for  the  employment  of  his 
small,  steadily-increasing  financial  strength,  Mr.  Worth  established 
the  Pioneer  Bank.  Later,  as  he  had  foreseen,  the  same  master  pas- 
sion brought  the  great  railroad  with  still  larger  opportunities  for  his 
money  to  make  more  money.  And  now  the  same  master  passion 
that  had  driven  the  Indian,  the  emigrant,  the  miner,  the  cowman, 
the  banker  and  the  railroad  was  driving  the  eastern  capitalists  to 
spend  their  moneyed  strength  in  the  reclamation  of  The  King's  Basin 
Desert.  It  was  Good  Business  that  called  to  Jefferson  Worth  now  as 
he  saw  the  immense  possibilities  of  the  land. 

As  truly  as  the  ages  had  made  the  barren  desert  with  its  hard, 
thirsty  life,  the  ages  had  produced  Jefferson  Worth,  a  carefully  per- 
fected, money-making  machine,  as  silent,  hard  and  lonely  as  the 
desert  itself.  With  apparently  no  vices,  no  passions,  no  mistakes, 
no  failures,  his  only  relation  to  his  fellow-men  was  a  business  relation. 
With  his  almost  supernatural  ability  to  foresee,  to  measure,  to  weigh 
and  judge,  with  his  cold,  mask-like  face  and  his  manner  of  considering 
carefully  every  word  and  of  placing  a  value  upon  every  trivial  inci- 
dent, he  was  respected,  feared,  trusted,  even  admired — and  that  was 
all.  No;  not  all.  By  those  who  were  forced,  through  circumstances — 
business  circumstances — to  contribute  to  his  prosperity  and  financial 
success,  he  was  hated.  Such  is  the  unreasonableness  of  human  kind. 

Business,  to  this  man  as  to  many  of  his  kind,  was  not  the  mean, 
sordid  grasping  and  hoarding  of  money.  It  was  his  profession,  but  it 
was  even  more  than  a  profession ;  it  was  the  expression  of  his  genius. 
Still  more  it  was,  through  him,  the  expression  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  the  expression  of  the  master  passion  that  in  all  ages  had 
wrought  in  the  making  of  the  race.  He  looked  upon  a  successful 
deal  as  a  good  surgeon  looks  upon  a  successful  operation,  as  an 
architect  upon  the  completion  of  a  building  or  an  artist  upon  his 
finished  picture.  But  to  a  greater  degree  than  to  artist  or  surgeon, 
the  success  of  his  work  was  measured  by  the  accumulation  of  dollars. 
Apart  from  his  work  he  valued  the  money  received  from  his  opera- 
tions no  more  than  the  surgeon  his  fee,  the  artist  his  price.  The  work 


318  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

itself  was  his  passion.  Because  dollars  were  the  tools  of  his  craft 
he  was  careful  of  them.  The  more  he  succeeded,  the  more  power 
he  gained  for  greater  success. 

The  work  of  the  expedition  was  nearly  finished.  The  banker 
knew  now  from  the  results  of  the  survey  and  from  his  own  careful 
observations  and  estimates  that  the  Seer's  dream  was  not  only  pos- 
sible from  an  engineering  point  of  view,  but  from  the  careful  capital- 
ist's standpoint  would  justify  a  large  investment.  Lying  within  the 
lines  of  the  ancient  beach  and  thus  below  the  level  of  the  great  river, 
were  hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  equal  in  richness  of  soil  to 
the  famous  delta  lands  of  the  Nile.  The  bringing  of  the  water  from 
the  river  and  its  distribution  through  a  system  of  canals  and  ditches, 
while  a  work  of  great  magnitude  requiring  the  expenditure  of  large 
sums  of  money,  was,  as  an  engineering  problem,  comparatively  simple. 

As  Jefferson  Worth  gazed  at  the  wonderful  scene,  a  vision  of  the 
changes  that  were  to  come  to  that  land  passed  before  him.  He  saw 
first,  following  the  nearly  completed  work  of  the  engineers,  an  army 
of  men  beginning  at  the  river  and  pushing  out  into  the  desert  with 
their  canals,  bringing  with  them  the  life-giving  water.  Soon,  with 
the  coming  of  the  water,  would  begin  the  coming  of  the  settlers. 
Hummocks  would  be  levelled,  washes  and  arroyos  filled,  ditches 
would  be  made  to  the  company  canals,  and  in  place  of  the  thin 
growth  of  gray-green  desert  vegetation  with  the  ragged  patches  of 
dun  earth  would  come  great  fields  of  luxuriant  alfalfa,  billowing  acres 
of  grain,  with  miles  upon  miles  of  orchards,  vineyards  and  groves. 
The  fierce  desert  life  would  give  way  to  the  herds  and  flocks  and  the 
home  life  of  the  farmer.  The  railroad  would  stretch  its  steel  strength 
into  this  new  world;  towns  and  cities  would  come  to  be  where  now 
was  only  solitude  and  desolation ;  and  out  from  this  world-old  treasure 
house  vast  wealth  would  pour  to  enrich  the  peoples  of  the  earth.  The 
wealth  of  an  empire  lay  in  that  land  under  the  banker's  eye,  and 
Capital  held  the  key. 

But  while  the  work  of  the  engineers  was  simple,  it  would  be  a 
great  work;  and  it  was  the  magnitude  of  the  enterprise  and  the  con- 
sequent requirement  of  large  sums  of  money  that  gave  Capital  its 
opportunity.  Without  water  the  desert  was  worthless.  With  water 
the  productive  possibilities  of  that  great  territory  were  enormous. 
Without  Capital  the  water  could  not  be  had.  Therefore,  Capital 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT  319 

was  master  of  the  situation  and,  by  controlling  the  water,  could  exact 
royal  tribute  from  the  wealth  of  the  land. 

With  the  coming  of  the  water  also,  the  stream  of  human  life 
that  flowed  into  the  Basin  was  swollen  by  hundreds  of  settlers  driven 
by  the  master  passion — Good  Business — to  toil  and  traffic,  to  build 
the  city,  to  subdue  and  cultivate  the  land  and  thus  to  realize  the 
Seer's  dream,  while  the  engineer  himself  was  banished  from  the  work 
to  which  he  had  given  his  life.  Every  sunrise  saw  new  tent-houses 
springing  up  on  the  claims  of  the  settlers  around  the  Company  town 
and  new  buildings  beginning  in  the  center  of  it  all — Kingston.  Every 
sunset  saw  miles  of  new  ditches  ready  to  receive  the  water  from  the 
canal  and  acres  of  new  land  cleared  and  graded  for  irrigation. 

As  the  trying  months  of  the  semi-tropical  summer  approached, 
the  great  Desert,  so  awful  in  its  fierce  desolation,  so  pregnant  with 
the  life  it  was  still  so  reluctant  to  yield,  gathered  all  its  dreadful 
forces  to  withstand  the  inflowing  streams  of  human  energy.  In  the 
fierce  winds  that  rushed  through  the  mountain  passes  and  swept 
across  the  hot  plains  like  a  torrid  furnace  blast;  in  the  blinding, 
stinging,  choking,  smothering  dust  that  moved  in  golden  clouds  from 
rim  to  rim  of  the  Basin;  in  the  hot  sky,  without  shred  or  raveling 
of  cloud;  in  the  creeping,  silent,  poison  life  of  insect  and  reptile;  in 
the  maddening  dryness  of  the  thirsty  vegetation ;  in  the  weird,  beauti- 
ful falseness  of  the  ever-changing  mirage,  the  spirit  of  the  Desert 
issued  its  silent  challenge:  the  silent,  sinister,  menacing  threat  of  a 
desolation  that  had  conquered  by  cruel  waiting  and  that  lay  in  wait 
still  to  conquer. 

With  grim  determination,  nervous  energy,  enduring  strength  and 
a  dogged  tenacity  of  purpose,  the  invading  flood  of  humanity,  irre- 
sistibly driven  by  that  master  passion,  Good  Business,  matched  its 
strength  against  that  of  the  Desert  in  the  season  of  its  greatest  power. 

Steadily  mile  by  mile,  acre  by  acre,  and  at  times  almost  foot  by 
foot,  the  pioneers  wrested  their  future  farms  and  homes  from  the 
dreadful  forces  that  had  held  them  for  ages.  Steadily,  with  the  in- 
flowing stream  of  life  from  the  world  beyond  the  Basin's  rim,  the 
area  of  improved  lands  about  Kingston  extended  and  the  work  in  the 
Company's  town  went  on.  By  midsummer  many  acres  of  alfalfa, 
with  Egyptian  corn  and  other  grains,  showed  broad  fields  of  living 
green  cut  into  the  dull,  dun  plain  of  the  Desert  and  laced  with  silver 
threads  of  water  shining  in  the  sun. 


320  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

In  obedience  to  its  master  passion — Good  Business — the  race  now 
began  pouring  its  life  into  the  barren  wastes  of  The  King's 
Basin  Desert. 

At  Deep  Well  (which  is  no  well  at  all)  on  the  rim  of  the  Basin, 
trainloads  of  supplies,  implements,  machinery,  lumber  and  construc- 
tion material,  horses,  mules  and  men  were  daily  side-tracked  and 
unloaded  on  the  desert  sands.  Overland  travelers  gazed  in  startled 
wonder  at  the  scene  of  stirring  activity  that  burst  so  suddenly  upon 
them  in  the  midst  of  the  barren  land  through  which  they  had  ridden 
for  hours  without  sight  of  a  human  habitation  or  sign  of  man.  The 
great  mountain  of  goods,  piled  on  the  dun  plain ;  the  bands  of  horses 
and  mules;  the  camp-fires;  the  blankets  spread  on  the  bare  ground; 
the  men  moving  here  and  there  in  seemingly  hopeless  confusion — all 
looked  so  ridiculously  out  of  place  and  so  pitifully  helpless. 

Every  hour  companies  of  men  with  teams  and  vehicles  set  out  from 
the  camp  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  silent  distance.  Night  and  day 
the  huge  mountain  of  goods  was  attacked  by  the  freighters  who,  with 
their  big  wagons  drawn  by  six,  eight,  twelve,  or  more,  mules,  appeared 
mysteriously  out  of  the  weird  landscape  as  if  they  were  spirits  ma- 
terialized by  some  mighty  unknown  genii  of  the  desert.  Their  heavy 
wagons  loaded,  their  water  barrels  filled,  they  turned  again  to  the 
unseen  realm  from  which  they  had  been  summoned.  The  sound  of 
the  loud  voices  of  the  drivers,  the  creaking  of  the  wagons,  the  jingle 
of  harness,  the  shot-like  reports  of  long  whips  died  quickly  away; 
while,  to  the  vision,  the  outfits  passed  slowly — fading,  dissolving  in 
their  great  clouds  of  dust,  in  to  the  land  of  mystery. 

A  year  from  the  beginning  of  the  work  at  the  intake  of  the  river, 
water  was  turned  into  the  canals.  With  the  coming  of  the  water, 
Kingston  changed,  almost  between  suns,  from  a  rude  supply  camp  to 
an  established  town  with  post-office,  stores,  hotel,  blacksmith  shop, 
livery  stables,  all  in  buildings  more  or  less  substantial.  Town  site 
companies  quickly  laid  out  new  towns,  while  in  the  town  already 
established  new  business  blocks  and  dwellings  sprang  up  as  if  some 
Aladdin  had  rubbed  his  lamp.  Real  estate  values  advanced  to 
undreamed  figures  and  the  property  was  sold,  resold  and  sold  again. 
And  Kingston,  Texas  Joe  said,  "  went  plumb  locoed." 

The  name  of  Jefferson  Worth  was  on  every  tongue.  Was  not 
he  the  wizard  who  commanded  prosperity  and  wealth  to  wait  upon 
The  King's  Basin?  Was  he  not  the  Aladdin  who  rubbed  the  lamp? 


APPROACH  TO  DULUTH,  THE  LAND  OF  WORK  AND  BEAUTY 
The  lines  of  the  winding  waterways,  each  leading  to  a  furnace,  a  mill,  an  elevator,  are 
simply  beautiful  and  the  color  absolutely  lovely.  This  is  the  modern  landscape — a 
landscape  that  Claude  would  have  loved.  All  his  composition  is  in  it — only  the  mills 
have  replaced  the  palaces,  the  trestle  the  acqueduct;  instead  of  the  stone  pine  there 
stands  the  water  tower;  instead  of  the  cypress,  the  automatic  signal;  instead  of  the  cross 
the  trolley  pole.  Soon,  however,  all  this  will  go — the  mystery  of  the  smoke  will  vanish 
in  the  clearness  of  electricity,  and  the  mystery  of  the  trestle  in  the  plainness  of  the  con- 
crete bridge.  But  it  is  here  now,  and  the  thing  is  to  delight  in  it.  Artists  don't  see 
it — and  the  railroad  men  who  have  made  it  don't  know  any  more  than  the  Greeks 
what  a  marvellous  thing  they  have  made. 


i 


APPROACH   TO  DULUTH.      BY   JOSEPH   PENNELL 


RECLAIMING  THE  DESERT  321 

The  methods  of  capital  are  impersonal,  inhuman — the  methods 
of  a  force  governed  by  laws  as  fixed  as  the  laws  of  nature,  neither 
cruel  nor  kind;  inconsiderate  of  man's  misery  or  happiness,  his  life 
or  death;  using  man  for  its  own  ends — profit,  as  men  use  water  and 
soil  and  sun  and  air.  The  methods  of  Jefferson  Worth  were  the 
methods  of  a  man  laboring  with  his  brother  men,  sharing  their  hard- 
ships, sharing  their  returns;  a  man  using  money  as  a  workman  uses 
his  tools  to  fashion  and  build  and  develop,  adding  thus  to  the  welfare 
of  human  kind. 


THE  CHILD-MAN 
BY  ARNOLD  BENNETT 

THE  man  Darius  was  first  taken  to  work  by  his  mother.  It  was 
the  winter  of  1835,  January.  They  passed  through  the  market-place 
of  the  town  of  Turnhill,  where  they  lived.  Turnhill  lies  a  couple  of 
miles  north  of  Bursley.  One  side  of  the  market-place  was  barricaded 
with  stacks  of  coal,  and  the  other  with  loaves  of  a  species  of  rye 
and  straw  bread.  This  coal  and  these  loaves  were  being  served  out 
by  meticulous  and  haughty  officials,  all  invisibly  braided  with  red- 
tape,  to  a  crowd  of  shivering,  moaning,  and  weeping  wretches,  men, 
women  and  children — the  basis  of  the  population  of  Turnhill.  Al- 
though they  were  all  endeavoring  to  make  a  noise,  they  made  scarcely 
any  noise,  from  mere  lack  of  strength.  Nothing  could  be  heard, 
under  the  implacable  bright  sky,  but  faint  ghosts  of  sound,  as  though 
people  were  sighing  and  crying  from  within  the  vacuum  of  a  huge 
glass  bell. 

The  next  morning,  at  half-past  five,  Darius  began  his  career  in 
earnest.  He  was  "  mold-runner  "  to  a  "  muffin-maker,"  a  muffin 
being  not  a  comestible  but  a  small  plate,  fashioned  by  its  maker  on  a 
mold.  The  business  of  Darius  was  to  run  as  hard  as  he  could  with 
the  mold,  and  a  newly-created  plate  adhering  thereto,  into  the  drying- 
stove.  This  "  stove  "  was  a  room  lined  with  shelves,  and  having  a 
red-hot  stove  and  stove-pipe  in  the  middle.  As  no  man  of  seven 
could  reach  the  upper  shelves,  a  pair  of  steps  was  provided  for  Darius, 
and  up  these  he  had  to  scamper.  Each  mold  with  its  plate  had  to  be 
leaned  carefully  against  the  wall,  and  if  the  soft  clay  of  a  new-born 
plate  was  damaged,  Darius  was  knocked  down.  The  atmosphere 
outside  the  stove  was  chill,  but  owing  to  the  heat  of  the  stove, 
Darius  was  obliged  to  work  half  naked.  His  sweat  ran  down  his 
cheeks,  and  down  his  chest,  and  down  his  back,  making  white  chan- 
nels, and  lastly  it  soaked  his  hair. 

When  there  were  no  molds  to  be  sprinted  into  the  drying-stove, 

From  Clayhanger,  by  Arnold  Bennett.    Copyright,  1910,  by  George  H. 
Doran,  Publisher. 
322 


THE  CHILD-MAN  323 

and  no  molds  to  be  carried  less  rapidly  out,  Darius  was  engaged  in 
clay-wedging.  That  is  to  say,  he  took  a  piece  of  raw  clay  weighing 
more  than  himself,  cut  it  in  two  with  a  wire,  raised  one  half  above 
his  head  and  crashed  it  down  with  all  his  force  upon  the  other  half; 
and  he  repeated  the  process  until  the  clay  was  thoroughly  soft  and 
even  in  texture.  At  a  later  period  it  was  discovered  that  hydraulic 
machinery  could  perform  this  operation  more  easily  and  more  effectu- 
ally than  the  brawny  arms  of  a  man  of  seven.  At  eight  o'clock  in  the 
evening  Darius  was  told  that  he  had  done  enough  for  that  day,  and 
that  he  must  arrive  at  five  sharp  the  next  morning  to  light  the  fire, 
before  his  master  the  muffin-maker  began  to  work.  When  he  inquired 
how  he  was  to  light  the  fire  his  master  kicked  him  jovially  on  the 
thigh  and  suggested  that  he  should  ask  another  mold-runner.  His 
master  was  not  a  bad  man,  at  heart,  it  was  said,  but  on  Tuesdays, 
after  Sunday  and  Saint  Monday,  masters  were  apt  to  be  capricious. 
Darius  reached  home  at  a  quarter  to  nine,  having  eaten  nothing 
but  bread  all  day.  Somehow  he  had  lapsed  into  the  child  again.  His 
mother  took  him  on  her  knee,  and  wrapped  her  sacking  apron  round 
his  ragged  clothes,  and  cried  over  him  and  cried  over  his  supper  of 
porridge,  and  undressed  him  and  put  him  to  bed.  But  he  could  not 
sleep  easily  because  he  was  afraid  of  being  late  the  next  morning. 


IT 

And  the  next  morning,  wandering  about  the  yards  of  the  manufac- 
tory, in  a  storm  of  icy  sleet  a  little  before  five  o'clock,  he  learned 
from  a  more  experienced  companion  that  nobody  would  provide  him 
with  kindling  for  his  fire,  that  on  the  contrary  everybody  who  hap- 
pened to  be  on  the  place  at  that  hour  would  unite  to  prevent  him 
ifrom  getting  kindling,  and  that  he  must  steal  it  or  expect  to  be 
thrashed  before  six  o'clock.  Near  them  a  vast  kiln  of  ware  in 
process  of  firing  showed  a  white  flaming  glow  at  each  of  its  mouths 
in  the  black  winter  darkness.  Darius's  mentor  crept  up  to  the  arch- 
way of  the  great  hovel  which  protected  the  kiln,  and  pointed  like  a 
conspirator  to  the  figure  of  the  guardian  fireman  dozing  near  his 
monster.  The  boy  had  the  handle-less  remains  of  an  old  spade,  and 
with  it  he  crept  into  the  hovel,  dangerously  abstracted  fire  from  one 
of  the  scorching  mouths,  and  fled  therewith;  and  the  fireman  never 
stirred.  Then  Darius,  to  whom  the  mentor  kindly  lent  his  spade, 


324  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

attempted  to  do  the  same,  but  being  inexpert  woke  the  fireman,  who 
held  him  spellbound  by  his  roaring  voice  and  then  flung  him  like 
a  sack  of  potatoes  bodily  into  the  slush  of  the  yard,  and  the  spade 
after  him.  Happily  the  mentor,  whose  stove  was  now  alight,  lent 
fire  to  Darius,  so  that  Darius's  stove,  too,  was  cheerfully  burning 
when  his  master  came.  And  Darius  was  too  excited  to  feel  fatigue. 

By  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  night  Darius  had  earned  a  shilling  for 
his  week's  work.  But  he  could  only  possess  himself  of  the  shilling  by 
going  to  a  magnificent  public-house  with  his  master  the  muffin-maker. 
This  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  ever  been  inside  of  a  public-house. 
The  place  was  crowded  with  men,  women  and  children  eating  the 
most  lovely  hot  rolls  and  drinking  beer,  in  an  atmosphere  exquisitely 
warm.  And  behind  a  high  counter  a  stout  jolly  man  was  counting 
piles  and  piles  and  piles  of  silver.  Darius's  master,  in  company  with 
other  boys'  masters,  gave  this  stout  man  four  sovereigns  to  change, 
and  it  was  an  hour  before  he  changed  them.  Meanwhile  Darius  was 
instructed  that  he  must  eat  a  roll  Hike  the  rest,  together  with  cheese. 
Never  had  he  tasted  anything  so  luscious.  He  had  a  match  with 
his  mentor,  as  to  which  of  them  could  spin  out  his  roll  the  longer, 
honestly  chewing  all  the  time ;  and  he  won.  Someone  gave  him  half 
a  glass  of  beer.  At  half-past  seven  he  received  his  shilling,  which 
consisted  of  a  sixpenny  piece  and  four  pennies;  and,  leaving  the  gay 
public-house,  pushed  his  way  through  a  crowd  of  tearful  women  with 
babies  in  their  arms  at  the  doors,  and  went  home.  And  such  was  the 
attraction  of  the  Sunday  School  that  he  was  there  the  next  morning, 
with  scented  hair,  two  minutes  before  the  opening. 


m 

In  about  a  year  Darius's  increasing  knowledge  of  the  world 
enabled  him  to  rise  in  it.  He  became  a  handle-maker,  in  another 
manufactory,  and  also  he  went  about  with  the  pride  of  one  who  could 
form  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  with  a  pen.  In  his  new  work  he  had 
to  put  a  bit  of  clay  between  two  molds  and  then  force  the  top  mold 
on  to  the  bottom  one  by  means  of  his  stomach,  which  it  was  necessary 
to  press  downwards  and  at  the  same  time  to  wriggle  with  a  peculiar 
movement.  The  workman  to  whom  he  was  assigned,  his  new  "  mas- 
ter," attached  these  handles,  with  strange  rapid  skill,  to  beer-mugs. 
For  Darius  the  labor  was  much  lighter  than  that  of  mold-running 


THE  CHILD-MAN  325 

and  clay-wedging,  and  the  pay  was  somewhat  higher.  But  there 
were  minor  disadvantages.  He  descended  by  twenty  steps  to  his  toil, 
and  worked  in  a  long  cellar  which  never  received  any  air  except  by 
way  of  the  steps  and  a  passage,  and  never  any  daylight  at  all. 
Its  sole  illumination  was  a  stove  used  for  drying.  The  "  throwers'  " 
and  the  "  turners'  "  rooms  were  also  subterranean  dungeons.  When 
in  full  activity  all  these  stinking  cellars  were  full  of  men,  boys,  and 
young  women,  working  close  together  in  a  hot  twilight.  Certain 
boys  were  trained  contrabandists  of  beer,  and  beer  came  as  steadily 
into  the  dungeons  as  though  it  had  been  laid  on  by  a  main  pipe. 

But  perhaps  the  worst  drawback  of  Darius's  new  position  was 
the  long  and  irregular  hours,  due  partly  to  the  influences  of  Saint 
Monday,  and  partly  to  the  fact  that  the  employees  were  on  piece- 
work and  entirely  unhampered  by  grandmotherly  legislation.  The 
result  was  that  six  days'  work  was  generally  done  in  four.  And  as 
the  younger  the  workman  the  earlier  he  had  to  start  in  the  morning, 
Darius  saw  scarcely  enough  of  his  bed.  It  was  not,  of  course,  to  be 
expected  that  a  self-supporting  man  of  the  world  should  rigorously 
confine  himself  to  an  eight-hour  day  or  even  a  twelve-hour  day,  but 
Darius's  day  would  sometimes  stretch  to  eighteen  and  nineteen 
hours:  which  on  hygienic  grounds  could  not  be  unreservedly  defended. 


rv 

One  Tuesday  evening  his  master,  after  three  days  of  debauch, 
ordered  him  to  be  at  work  at  three  o'clock  the  next  morning.  He 
quickly  and  even  eagerly  agreed,  for  he  was  already  intimate  with 
his  master's  rope-lash.  He  reached  home  at  ten  o'clock  on  an  autumn 
night,  and  went  to  bed  and  to  sleep.  He  woke  up  with  a  start,  in  the 
dark.  There  was  no  watch  nor  clock  in  the  house,  from  which  nearly 
all  the  furniture  had  gradually  vanished,  but  he  knew  it  must  be 
already  after  three  o'clock;  and  he  sprang  up  and  rushed  out.  Of 
course,  he  had  not  undressed;  his  life  was  too  strenuous  for  mere 
formalities.  The  stars  shone  above  him  as  he  ran  along,  wondering 
whether  after  all,  though  late,  he  could  by  unprecedented  effort  make 
the  ordained  number  of  handles  before  his  master  tumbled  into  the 
cellar  at  five  o'clock. 

When  he  had  run  a  mile  he  met  some  sewage  men  on  their  rounds, 
who  in  reply  to  his  question  told  him  that  the  hour  was  half  after 


326  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

midnight.  He  dared  not  risk  a  return  to  home  and  bed,  for  within 
two  and  a  half  hours  he  must  be  at  work.  He  wandered  aimlessly 
over  the  surface  of  the  earth  until  he  came  to  a  tile-works,  more  or 
less  unenclosed,  whose  primitive  ovens  showed  a  glare.  He  ventured 
within,  and  in  spite  of  himself  sat  down  on  the  ground  near  one  of 
those  heavenly  ovens.  And  then  he  wanted  to  get  up  again,  for  he 
could  feel  the  strong  breath  of  his  enemy,  sleep.  But  he  could  not 
get  up.  In  a  state  of  terror  he  yielded  himself  to  his  enemy.  Shame- 
ful cowardice  on  the  part  of  a  man  now  aged  nine!  God,  however, 
is  merciful,  and  sent  to  him  an  angel  in  the  guise  of  a  night-watchman, 
who  kicked  him  into  wakefulness  and  off  the  place.  He  ran  on 
limping,  beneath  the  stellar  systems,  and  reached  his  work  at  half- 
past  four  o'clock. 

Although  he  had  never  felt  so  exhausted  in  his  long  life,  he  set 
to  work  with  fury.  Useless!  When  his  master  arrived  he  had 
scarcely  got  through  the  preliminaries.  He  dully  faced  his  master  in 
the  narrow  stifling  cellar,  lit  by  candles  impaled  on  nails  and  already 
peopled  by  the  dim  figures  of  boys,  girls,  and  a  few  men.  His  master 
was  of  taciturn  habit  and  merely  told  him  to  kneel  down.  He  knelt. 
Two  bigger  boys  turned  hastily  from  their  work  to  snatch  a  glimpse  of 
the  affair.  The  master  moved  to  the  back  of  the  cellar  and  took 
from  a  box  a  piece  of  rope  an  inch  thick  and  clogged  with  clay.  At 
the  same  moment  a  companion  offered  him,  in  silence,  a  tin  can  with 
a  slim  neck,  out  of  which  he  drank  deep;  it  contained  a  pint  of 
porter  owing  on  loan  from  the  previous  day.  When  the  master  came 
in  due  course  with  the  rope  to  do  justice  upon  the  sluggard  he  found 
the  lad  fallen  forward  and  breathing  heavily  and  regularly.  Darius 
had  gone  to  sleep.  He  was  awakened  with  some  violence,  but  the 
public  opinion  of  the  dungeon  saved  him  from  a  torn  shirt  and  a 
bloody  back. 

This  was  Darius's  last  day  on  a  pot-bank.  The  next  morning 
he  and  his  went  in  procession  to  the  Bastile,  as  the  place  was  called. 
His  father,  having  been  too  prominent  and  too  independent  in  a 
strike,  had  been  black-listed  by  every  manufacturer  in  the  district; 
and  Darius,  though  nine,  could  not  keep  the  family. 


THE  "  RED-INK  SQUAD  " 
BY  HARVEY  JERROLD  O'HicciNS 

WHEN  the  new  chief  took  charge  of  the  uniformed  force  of  the 
fire  department,  he  swept  its  veterans  into  retirement  with  a  broom. 
The  "  probationers  "  crowded  in  to  fill  the  vacancies,  and  in  three 
months  Captain  Meaghan  found  himself,  as  he  said,  sourly,  "  teachin' 
kindergarten  "  in  the  truck-house  of  Hook  and  Ladder  Company 
No.  0.  He  ruled  a  shabby  red-brick  building  of  three  stories  that 
stood  between  the  knees  of  two  downtown  wholesale  houses  in  a 
warehouse  district  where  "  packing-case  fires  "  gave  the  men  the 
worst  of  "  punishment "  and  the  best  of  training.  It  followed  that 
the  captain's  roll  had  more  probationers  and  new  men  on  it  than 
any  other;  and  because  the  names  of  the  probationers  were  entered 
in  red  ink,  these  raw  recruits  were  nicknamed,  in  contempt,  the 
"  red-ink  squad." 

They  were  teased  and  bullied  by  the  older  men.  They  quarreled 
among  themselves,  disturbing  the  club  quiet  of  the  truck-house 
leisure;  and  they  were  despised  by  their  captain,  who  demanded  of 
his  new  assistant,  "  Where '11  I  be  if  I  run  into  a  big  blaze  with  a 
gang  like  that?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  he  held  Lieutenant  Gallegher  personally  responsible 
for  the  condition  of  the  crew.  Gallegher  tried  to  flatter  him  with 
an  assurance  that  the  chief  sent  the  green  men  to  him  as  a  good 
master.  "  There's  Brodrick  has  the  same  sort  of  district,"  he  said, 
"  and  he  doesn't  get  them." 

Captain  Meaghan  replied,  curtly:  "  He  breaks  their  backs." 

Gallegher  rubbed  his  chin.  "  They're  not  so  bad,  taking  them 
singly,"  he  considered,  "  but  there's  too  many  of  them.  And  those 
two  Guinnys  were  a  double  dose  too  much."  (He  referred  to  two 
Italians — one  of  whom  was  called  "  Dan  Jordan  "  by  the  men,  be- 
cause his  name  was  "  Giovanni  Giordano  "  and  he  was  good-natured; 
and  the  other  was  maliciously  miscalled  "  Spaghetti,"  because  his 

From  The  Smoke-Eaters,  by  Harvey  J.  O'Higgins.  Copyright,  1905, 
by  The  Century  Co.,  Publishers. 

327 


328  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

• 

name  was  unpronounceable,   and  he  turned   black  when  he   got 
this  substitute.) 

"  They'll  be  sendin'  me  Chinese  next,"  Captain  Meaghan 
growled,  unmollified. 

"  They  will,"  the  lieutenant  said,  "  as  soon  as  the  Chinks  begin 
to  vote." 

Captain  Meaghan  chose  to  resent  that  shot  at  the  powers  that 
ruled  the  department.  "  Well,"  he  blustered,  "  I  wish  yuh'd  get  into 
a  '  worker,'  so's  if  yuh're  the  stuff  that  makes  firemen  I'd  know  it; 
an'  if  y'  aint,  the  chief 'd  know  it — an'  cut  it  out." 

And  he  had  his  wish. 

The  alarm  of  the  Torrance  fire  was  rung  in  just  before  daybreak 
on  a  warm  midsummer  morning,  while  the  men  still  lay  sleeping  in 
their  bunk-room  under  the  glowworm  glimmer  of  a  lowered  gas-jet. 
They  leaped  from  their  cots  with  the  simultaneous  suddenness  of  the 
start  in  an  obstacle  race  at  the  crack  of  the  pistol,  tugged  on  their 
"  turnouts  "  of  rubber  boots  and  trousers  with  a  muttering  of  growls 
and  imprecations,  vaulted  beds  while  still  hooking  their  waistband 
catches,  threw  themselves  at  the  brass  sliding-poles  in  the  corners, 
and  shot  down  into  the  glare  and  noise  and  seeming  disorder  of  the 
ground  floor,  where  the  horses  were  already  tossing  their  great  heads 
in  their  harness,  and  the  driver  was  already  bending  forward  in  his 
seat,  and  the  doors  stood  open  on  the  darkness  of  the  night. 

Captain  Meaghan  sprang  into  the  light  rig  in  which  the  absent 
battalion  chief  rode  to  fires,  and  swung  out  into  the  street  with  a 
sudden  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  stone  sidewalk  and  the  burst  and  echo 
of  a  jangling  gong  in  the  dead  quiet  out-of-doors.  The  truck  fol- 
lowed— fifteen  seconds  after  the  "  jigger  "  had  started  the  alarm — 
with  little  "  Spaghetti  "  climbing  in  over  the  tail  of  the  bed-ladders 
behind  "Long  Tom"  Donnelly,  who  had  the  "tiller"  of  the 
hind  wheels. 

That  was  a  good  start.  But  it  was  only  the  start.  The  driver  was 
a  new  man,  who  was  not  new  to  driving,  but  who  was  new  to  driving 
a  hook-and-ladder  truck.  He  had  been  a  coachman,  and  he  knew 
all  about  horses;  but  for  the  seat  of  a  five-ton  truck  a  man  needs 
the  nerve  of  a  chauffeur  and  the  shoulders  of  a  Roman  chariot-racer; 
and  he  does  not  need  to  know  a  bridle  from  a  belly-band.  And 
before  they  had  rounded  their  second  corner,  Donnelly,  on  the  tiller, 


THE  "RED-INK  SQUAD  "  329 

was  braced  and  ready  for  the  turn  at  a  gallop  that  might  be  a  run 
on  the  rocks  for  him. 

It  came  within  sight  of  the  fire.  The  horses  were  already  beyond 
control  when  the  piping  wail  of  a  "  steamer  "  sounded  in  their  ears 
from  a  side  street ;  the  driver  tugged  and  shouted ;  three  white  horses 
with  a  shining  engine  leaped  out  of  the  darkness  ahead  of  them,  and 
Donnelly,  with  a  great  oath,  wrenched  the  wheel  of  his  tiller  around 
to  send  the  rear  of  the  hook-and-ladder  truck  swinging  for  a  lamp- 
post on  the  curb.  The  crash  broke  the  rear  running-gear,  and 
brought  down  the  truck  on  the  cobblestones,  hamstrung.  The  engine 
flashed  past  them,  dropping  fire. 

The  collision  had  been  averted,  but  little  "  Spaghetti "  had  been 
thrown  out  on  the  stone  pavement,  and  lay  curled  up  on  a  sidewalk 
grating  with  a  broken  body.  Donnelly  crawled  out  from  the  ladders, 
his  right  arm  hanging  limp.  The  other  men  were  unhurt.  They  had 
braced  themselves  against  the  shock  by  clinging  to  the  side  ladders; 
and,  moreover,  they  had  not  received  the  terrific  momentum  of  the 
full  swing.  They  were  on  their  feet  about  the  fallen  "  nigh  "  horse 
when  Lieutenant  Gallegher  called  out  to  them  to  follow  him  on  foot 
with  such  scaling-ladders,  hooks,  and  axes  as  they  could  carry;  and 
they  stormed  the  truck  for  tools.  Donnelly  and  "  Dan  Jordan  "  lifted 
"  Spaghetti  "  between  them  and  carried  him  to  a  bed  of  life-lines 
covered  with  a  coat.  The  crew  disappeared  around  the  corner,  run- 
ning heavily  in  their  rubber  boots.  "  Be  off  now,"  Donnelly  ordered 
the  Italian,  and  "  Dan  Jordan  "  followed  the  others  reluctantly,  look- 
ing back  at  his  unconscious  countryman  as  he  turned  into  the 
side  street. 

Now,  the  first  truck  company  to  arrive  at  a  fire  makes  an  entrance 
at  doors  and  windows,  and  incidentally  saves  whatever  lives  are  in 
danger;  the  second  forces  its  way  through  an  adjoining  building  to 
open  smoke- vents  in  the  roof;  the  third  is  scattered  wherever  its 
assistance  is  most  needed,  to  help  the  engine  crews  in  "  stretching  in  " 
new  lines  of  hose,  to  tear  down  burning  woodwork,  to  carry  ladders 
and  wield  forcible-entrance  tools  in  the  secondary  movements  which 
are  made  against  a  fire  after  its  position  has  been  developed.  The 
accident  which  wrecked  Gallegher's  truck  brought  up  Company 
No.  0,  the  third  crew  to  arrive  where  it  should  have  been  the  first. 


330  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

And  that  was  how  the  probationers  came  to  be  separated  from  their 
elders,  to  face  their  trial  in  a  body  and  alone. 

Captain  Meaghan  was  already  raging  at  the  disgrace  which  their 
delay  brought  to  him,  and  the  danger  which  it  brought  to  the  first 
unsupported  engine  companies  that  had  gone  in  against  the  fire. 
When  he  saw  his  men  straggling  in  afoot,  disordered,  winded,  and 
trailing  their  few  tools,  he  threw  his  helmet  at  his  feet  and  kicked  it, 
cursing,  into  the  gutter.  The  new  men  gathered  behind  Gallegher 
and  the  front  line  of  the  company's  old  guard,  and  waited  like  school- 
boys for  a  disciplining,  with  muttered  asides  to  one  another  which 
they  spoke  with  their  eyes  on  their  feet.  Pipemen  shouldered  through 
them,  dragging  hose.  A  water-tower  almost  ran  them  down.  Shout 
answered  shout  around  them.  And  when  they  looked  up  for  their 
orders,  Captain  Meaghan  stood  bareheaded  and  raving  before  them, 
shaking  an  impotent  fist  at  Gallegher  and  roaring  unreportable  abuse. 

Gallegher  picked  up  his  helmet  for  him  from  the  gutter.  The 
captain  took  it  roughly  and  shambled  off  with  it  in  his  hand  to  report 
to  the  chief. 

The  lieutenant  was  known  as  the  mildest-mannered  man  that 
ever  "  rolled  "  to  a  fire.  "  Much  more  like  this,"  he  said,  "  and  the 
old  man'll  blow  up  and  bust." 

Sergeant  Pirn,  who  was  biting  a  cud  of  tobacco  from  a  com- 
panion's plug,  rolled  the  morsel,  bulging,  in  his  lean  cheek.  He  had 
no  consolation  to  offer,  so  he  gave  the  remainder  of  Parr's  tobacco; 
and  Gallegher  accepted  it  with  a  mute  nod  of  thanks.  The  occasion 
was  plainly  past  words. 

The  Torrance  Building  before  them  was  nine  stories  in  height, 
a  structure  of  granite  pillars  and  red  brick,  used  as  a  wholesale  house 
by  a  chemical  company  on  the  ground  floor,  and  as  an  office  build- 
ing in  the  upper  stories.  The  fire  was  in  the  lower  part  of  it.  Al- 
ready the  "  deadlights  "  in  the  sidewalk  had  been  broken  in  with 
axes  and  mauls,  and  a  cellar  pipe  was  spouting  its  stream  through 
the  opening  into  the  basement.  Long  lines  of  hose  stretched  from 
doors  and  hung  from  windows  where  the  smoke  puffed  from  gaping 
sashes,  and  men  in  helmets  and  rubber  coats  appeared  for  a  moment 
to  shout  reports  into  the  disorder  below  them  and  vanish  again  in 
the  darkness.  The  roof  of  the  seven-story  building  adjoining  was 
alive  with  men  who  were  raising  ladders  to  the  burning  structure. 
It  did  not  seem  to  Gallegher  and  his  company  that  there  would  be 


THE  "  RED-INK  SQUAD  "  331 

much  for  No.  0  to  do.  They  waited — the  inglorious  reserve  in  a 
battle  which  they  should  have  led — in  the  smoking  turmoil  of  pulsing 
engines,  the  cry  of  orders,  and  the  hurry  of  men. 

They  were  roused  from  their  inaction  by  Captain  Meaghan,  who 
charged  down  on  them  like  a  dog  on  chickens,  and  sent  them  scurry- 
ing in  all  directions — chased  Lieutenant  Gallegher,  Sergeant  Pirn,  and 
two  probationers,  Morphy  and  Fuchs,  to  the  ladders  with  a  shout 
to  open  smoke- vents  throughout  the  upper  stories;  ordered  three  of 
the  old  men  into  the  basement,  with  a  whack  of  his  helmet  on  their 
shoulders  and  a  yell  at  their  heels,  to  aid  the  pipemen  who  were 
flooding  the  cellar;  thrust  aside  two  others  who  carried  axes,  shouting 
at  them,  "  You  come  after  me  ";  sent  Parr,  "  Dan  Jordan,"  and  a 
probationer  named  Doyle  up  the  ladders  after  Gallegher's  squad; 
and  then  crushed  his  mudded  helmet  down  on  his  head  and  raced 
with  the  axemen  for  the  ground  floor,  where  a  line  of  hose  trailed 
from  the  black  smoke  of  the  doorway. 

That  disposition  of  his  men  put  the  veterans  of  the  company 
where  they  were  most  needed — in  the  cellar  and  on  the  first  floor — 
to  fight  the  fire  at  the  fierce  root  of  it,  and  it  sent  all  the  probationers 
aloft,  in  charge  of  Lieutenant  Gallegher,  to  the  less  important  and 
less  dangerous  duty  of  opening  smoke-vents.  It  is  with  these  "  red- 
inkers  "  only  that  we  are  concerned.  How  the  men  in  the  cellar 
were  driven  back  by  the  poisonous  fume  of  burning  chemicals,  fight- 
ing in  a  water  that  was  knee-deep,  and  in  a  smoke  that  stuck  like 
sulphur  in  the  lungs;  how  the  flames  got  behind  Captain  Meaghan 
and  the  two  men  with  him,  and  cut  off  their  retreat  from  the  burn- 
ing ground  floor ;  how  they  were  rescued  by  their  comrades  and  taken 
unconscious  to  the  hospital  in  the  waiting  ambulances — all  this  may 
not  be  told  here.  These  were  merely  the  trials  of  a  valor  that  had 
been  proved  many  times  in  fires  not  less  difficult  and  dangerous. 
With  the  probationers  it  was  a  different  story. 

While  the  battle  below  them  was  being  fought  and  lost,  they 
carried  out  their  captain's  orders  to  aid  and  relieve  the  engine  com- 
panies manning  the  streams  in  the  upper  stories.  They  worked  their 
way  from  the  front  to  the  rear  of  the  building,  and  threw  open  the 
steel  shutters  of  the  back  windows  to  let  in  the  air  and  to  let  out  the 
smoke.  They  found  the  pipemen  fighting  the  vanguard  of  the  fire 
that  was  coming  up  the  elevator  shaft.  The  blaze  here  was  not  dan- 
gerously large;  the  heat  was  not  excessive.  The  only  menace  was 


332  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  smoke;  and  Gallegher,  with  good  judgment,  cried  on  his  little 
squad  against  it.  Being  without  scaling-ladders,  they  used  the  stairs, 
and  worked  with  axe  and  hook-butt  from  the  third  story  to  the  sixth, 
crashing  down  doors  and  beating  out  window-sashes  until  they  had 
a  clean  chimney-flue  for  the  smoke  that  had  been  stifling  the  pipemen 
on  the  floors  below. 

They  were  on  the  sixth  story,  ignorant  of  what  had  been  happen- 
ing on  the  ground  floor,  when  an  explosion  of  "  back-draft "  below 
alarmed  them.  Gallegher  had  supposed  that  the  fire  was  well  under 
control  by  this  time;  he  had  not  known  of  the  poisonous  fume  in  the 
smoke.  And  the  magnitude  of  the  explosion  indicated  a  greater 
accumulation  of  gas,  and  therefore  a  fiercer  flame  and  a  greater  area 
of  heat,  than  he  had  imagined. 

He  ran  to  a  window  and  hung  out  of  it  to  see  men  sliding  down 
the  ladders  from  the  second  story.  A  huge  flame  spat  out  from  the 
ground  floor;  and  he  knew  from  the  retreat  and  counter-rush,  the 
scurry  and  confusion  of  the  crews  in  the  street,  that  the  fire  was 
carrying  all  below  him,  and  that  his  escape  would  be  cut  off.  He 
bawled  down  to  warn  them  of  his  danger,  and  then  ordered  his  squad 
to  follow  him  by  the  stairs.  They  groped  their  way  back  through 
the  dark  passages,  only  to  come  on  the  deadly  smoke  which  was 
pouring  up  stairs  and  elevator  shaft  in  advance  of  an  unchecked  fire. 
A  puff  of  it  struck  them  like  a  hand  at  the  throat,  and  they  dropped 
to  the  floor  to  catch  the  low  draft  of  cleaner  air  which  is  always  to 
be  found  there.  It  was  impossible  to  go  forward.  Gallegher  led 
them  back  at  a  blundering  run  to  the  window. 

One  look  below  convinced  him  that  they  were  trapped.  It  was 
not  possible  for  the  men  in  the  street  to  put  up  ladders  to  them. 
They  themselves,  because  of  the  accident  to  their  truck,  were  without 
scaling-ladders  or  other  means  of  escape. 

"  We're  up  a  tree,"  Gallegher  said,  soberly. 

The  new  men,  panting  from  exertion  and  excitement,  and  cough- 
ing from  the  irritation  of  the  smoke  in  their  throats,  grew  suddenly 
quiet,  staring  blankly  at  the  lieutenant  and  at  one  another.  They 
looked  out  at  the  street,  five  stories  below  them,  obscured  in  a  belch 
of  smoke.  They  heard  the  flames  behind  them  singing  in  a  fierce 
undertone  in  the  elevator  shaft.  And  when  the  Italian,  "  Dan  Jor- 
dan," began  to  jabber  an  appeal  to  all  the  saints  to  save  him — which 


THE  "  RED-INK  SQUAD  "  333 

the  men  mistook  for  a  "  Dago  "  profanity — they  relieved  their  feel- 
ings in  oaths  of  bewilderment  and  disgust. 

Sergeant  Pirn  had  been  too  busy  to  remember  the  quid  in  his 
cheek.  Now  he  chewed  thoughtfully.  "  If  we  could  crawl  back  an' 
go  higher,"  he  suggested,  "  there  ought  to  be  a  crew  on  the  roof." 

"  There's  something  in  that  smoke,"  Gallegher  said.  "  Cellar  and 
first  floor's  full  of  drugs — chemical  company.  They're  trying  to  get 
out  the  men  down  there.  They're  too  blame  busy  to  do  any- 
thing for  us." 

Fuchs,  the  probationer,  who  had  been  a  bridge-worker,  got  out  on 
the  window-ledge  and  craned  his  neck. 

"  Too  far  to  jump,"  Lieutenant  Gallegher  warned  him. 

"  Sure,"  he  said,  "  but  here's  a  three-inch  ledge  that  ought  to  run 
to  the  next  building." 

A  few  feet  below  the  window-sill  there  was  a  projecting  strip 
of  ornamental  stone  facing  that  crossed  the  Torrance  Building  with 
a  stripe  of  gray  on  the  red-brick  front.  Pirn  looked  down  at  it. 

"  Think  we're  giddy  sparrows?  "  he  complained. 

"  Dan  Jordan  "  peeped  out,  and  fell  back  from  the  window,  wav- 
ing an  unintelligible  protest. 

Fuchs  drew  off  his  rubber  boots.  "  If  you'll  put  a  hand  'tween 
my  shoulders,"  he  said  to  Gallegher,  "  I'll  see  how  far  it  goes." 

The  lieutenant  answered:  "  Yes.  Wait  a  second.  Knock  that 
sash  in,  Parr." 

Parr  made  a  sashless  gap  of  the  window-frame  with  two  blows 
of  his  axe.  Fuchs  swung  over  the  sill,  with  Gallegher's  hand  in  his 
collar,  and  found  the  stone  ledge  with  his  toes.  "  All  right,"  he  said. 
"  Brace  yourself  to  hold  me  to  the  wall — and  let  me  get  as  far 
as  you  can." 

Gallegher  straddled  the  still — with  Parr  sitting  on  the  leg  that 
anchored  him  to  the  room — and  gave  Fuchs  an  arm's  length,  with  a 
great  palm  spread  between  the  probationer's  shoulders.  Fuchs  edged 
forward,  his  ear  scraping  the  bricks,  until  he  could  be  certain  that 
the  ledge  led  to  the  windows  of  the  next  building.  "  All  right,"  he 
said  evenly;  "  it's  a  long  stretch,  but  I  guess  we  can  do  it,"  and  came 
back  inch  by  inch.  "  This  ledge  joins  a  sort  of  cornice." 

Gallegher  turned  to  the  others.  "  You  do  by  each  other  what 
I  do  with  Fuchs,"  he  said.  "  Morphy'll  follow  me,  and  then  Jordan, 
and  then  Doyle  and  Pirn.  Parr,  you'll  have  to  anchor  us  here  till 


334  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

Fuchs  reaches  the  other  window.  Get  your  boots  off,  men.  You'll 
have  to  get  a  grip  with  your  toes." 

"  I  got  holes  in  my  stockings,"  Pirn  said,  coyly. 

The  men  laughed — all  but  "  Dan  Jordan."  The  accident  to  his 
chum  "  Spaghetti  "  had  first  broken  his  nerve;  the  blind  groping  in  the 
darkness  and  the  smoke,  through  an  endless  succession  of  bewildering 
passageways  and  offices,  with  a  fire  that  seemed  to  him  to  be  stalk- 
ing them  into  the  dangerous  upper  regions  of  the  burning  building, 
had  added  a  child's  fear  to  this  weakness;  the  attempt  to  escape 
through  the  choking  smoke,  and  the  sudden  realization  of  all  his 
worst  fears  when  that  attempt  had  failed,  had  put  him  in  a  panic 
terror;  and  now,  when  he  saw  Gallegher 's  preparations  to  climb  out 
on  a  ledge  that  no  man  could  cling  to,  he  lost  his  last  control  of 
himself,  ran  to  the  other  window  of  the  room,  and  screamed  wildly 
out  of  it,  "  Hel-1-lp-ah!  Hel-1-lp-ah!  " 

His  voice  cut  through  the  uproar  in  the  street  with  the  shrill 
sharpness  of  a  steam  whistle.  He  began  to  yell  a  frightened  gibber- 
ish in  a  voice  of  crazy  fear. 

Parr's  hand  closed  suddenly  on  his  throat,  choked  him  from 
behind,  and  threw  him  back  from  the  window,  to  fall  in  a  hysteric 
grovel  on  the  floor.  "  There's  a  blamed  fine  mess,"  Parr  said 
to  Gallegher. 

The  lieutenant  was  thinking  of  the  effect  of  it  on  the  new  men. 
He  prodded  Jordan  with  his  toe.  "  Get  up,"  he  said,  sternly. 

The  Italian  covered  his  head  with  his  hands,  and  wailed  in  his 
jargon.  Gallegher  kicked  him  in  the  side.  "  Get  up,"  he  ordered. 
"  Get  up  out  of  that." 

Jordan  rolled  away  from  him  in  a  paroxysm  of  terror.  The  lieu- 
tenant bent  down,  caught  his  hand  in  the  probationer's  collar,  and, 
raising  him  to  his  knees,  shook  and  strangled  him  till  he  gasped  for 
breath.  "  Get  up,"  he  said,  easing  his  hold  on  him. 

The  Italian  sprang  to  his  feet,  broke  from  the  lieutenant,  and  ran 
toward  the  window,  screaming.  Parr  grappled  with  him.  He  fought 
like  a  madman,  with  wild  blows  that  fell  on  Parr's  face  and  blinded 
him  so  that  he  loosed  his  hold  to  defend  himself;  and  the  Italian, 
slipping  through  his  arms,  jumped  to  the  sill  of  the  window.  He 
crouched  there  a  moment,  huddled  up  with  fear,  and  then — whether 
it  was  that  he  lost  his  balance,  or  that  he  had  been  really  driven 
out  of  his  mind  by  this  "  fire  fright " — just  as  Parr  caught  at  his 


THE  "  RED-INK  SQUAD  "  335 

legs,  he  uttered  a  last  frantic  cry,  and  dived  headlong  into  the  street. 
They  saw  him  fall,  spread  like  a  bat.    Gallegher,  with  a  roar  of 
"  Get  back  there!  "  drove  the  probationers  from  the  windows  before 
they  saw  the  rest. 

He  faced  them.  Morphy's  lips  were  trembling.  Doyle  was 
laughing  weakly.  Parr  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  grimy  hand.  The 
lieutenant  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "  That's  what  happens  when  a  man 
loses  his  head." 

The  noises  from  the  street  grew  in  their  silence  until  Fuchs,  on 
the  ledge  outside  the  window,  said,  reflectively:  "  That's  like  Mullen 
did  on  the  old  cantilever."  And  Gallegher  knew  from  his  manner 
that  he  could  depend  on  one  of  the  probationers  at  least. 

He  tried  to  encourage  the  others.  "  And  there  was  no  need  for 
it,"  he  said.  "  There's  no  danger  about  getting  out  of  here — not  a 
bit.  The  same  thing's  been  done  before.  There  was  Rush  did  it — 
for  the  matter  of  that — at  the  Manhattan  bank  fire.  .  .  .  Get 
your  wind,  now.  There's  no  hurry." 

"No;  what's  the  use  of  hurryin'?  "  Pirn  said,  grimly.  "  Jordan's 
beat  us  down  already." 

Morphy  shuddered.  He  felt  sick  and  weak;  he  flushed  hot  and 
went  cold  in  waves;  and  his  knees  melted  into  tremblings.  He  leaned 
against  the  wall.  Doyle  laughed  brokenly  at  Pirn. 

"  Pull  yourselves  together,  now,"  Gallegher  said;  and  the  pro- 
bationer's laugh  choked  in  a  catch  of  breath  that  was  somewhere 
between  a  gulp  and  a  sob. 

The  lieutenant  summed  them  up  in  a  glance.  "  Just  do  what 
I  tell  you,"  he  instructed  them,  "  and  don't  be  thinking  of  what 
might  happen.  Keep  you  eyes  off  that.  See?  " 

A  puff  of  smoke  warned  him  of  approaching  danger.  He  turned 
to  the  window  and  climbed  out  on  the  sill.  "  We've  got  our  hands 
full,"  he  said  to  Fuchs.  "And  if  either  of  those  men  goes  dizzy,  we'll 
all  go  down." 

He  lowered  himself  to  a  place  on  the  narrow  ledge.  Fuchs,  then, 
with  Gallegher's  arm  to  support  him,  edged  out  against  the  wall. 
The  lieutenant  made  room  on  the  ledge  for  the  next  comer. 
"  Morphy,"  he  said. 

Morphy  came  trembling  over  the  sill,  with  his  teeth  shut  on  his 
nervousness.  "  Put  your  hand  between  my  shoulders,"  Gallegher 


336  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ordered,  ignoring  the  man's  condition,  "  and  let  me  and  Fuchs  go 
forward  as  far  as  you  can." 

Morphy  said,  "  Yes,  sir,"  gratefully. 

The  two  leaders  edged  forward.    "  Pirn's  next,"  Gallegher  said. 

With  Pirn  in  position,  the  chain  stretched  itself  inch  by  inch 
across  the  wall.  The  noises  from  the  street  beat  up  at  them  like  the 
sound  of  surf  at  the  foot  of  a  cliff  to  which  they  were  clinging. 

"  A  few  feet  more'll  do  it,"  Fuchs  reported. 

Gallegher  knew  that  he  could  not  depend  on  Doyle.  Morphy  was 
frightened,  but  his  pride  tried  to  conceal  it,  whereas  Doyle  had 
laughed  at  his  own  weakness;  and  Gallegher  knew  enough  of  the 
psychology  of  fear  to  rate  this  last  hysteria  near  the  breakdown. 
"  Parr  next,"  he  ordered. 

"  Parr  next,"  Morphy  repeated,  huskily. 

"  You're  next,"  Pirn  said,  in  the  cheerful  voice  of  a  barber  to 
his  customer.  "  Billy,  if  you  loves  me,  hold  me  close." 

Parr  spat  on  his  hands,  and  lowered  himself  to  the  ledge.  The 
men  moved  forward — Doyle  in  the  window,  holding  Parr;  Parr  sup- 
porting Pirn;  Pirn  holding  Morphy  to  the  wall  with  an  arm  of  iron; 
Morphy  crushing  Gallegher's  broad  shoulders  with  a  pressure  that 
spoke  of  overtense  nerves;  Gallegher,  steadying  Fuchs,  and  waiting 
quietly  for  the  first  signs  of  collapse  in  the  man  behind  him.  The 
smoke  stung  in  their  nostrils.  The  bricks  scratched  their  perspiring 
faces.  Their  heels  stood  on  nothing;  and  the  cords  of  their  insteps 
ached  with  the  strain  of  their  weight. 

"  My  knees  are  gettin'  weak,"  Morphy  said,  hoarsely. 

No  one  answered  him.  Fuchs  was  still  going  forward,  and  Gal- 
legher's hand  slid  heavily  across  the  little  bridge-worker's  back  as 
they  stretched  their  link  of  the  chain  to  the  breaking-point.  The 
lieutenant  felt  his  fingers  pass  from  the  hollow  of  the  probationer's 
shoulders  to  the  ridge  of  his  shoulder-blade — felt  that  drawn  slowly 
under  his  palm — felt  the  ball  of  his  thumb  slipping  over  the  shoulder. 

There  was  a  crash  of  broken  glass.  "  Got  my  hold,"  Fuchs 
reported. 

He  passed  beyond  Gallegher's  reach,  and  they  could  hear  him 
beating  in  the  glass  of  the  window  with  his  hatchet.  He  came  back 
to  put  a  hand  behind  Gallegher.  The  lieutenant  changed  the  strain 
to  his  other  arm. 


THE  "  RED-INK  SQUAD  "  337 

"  All  right,  now,"  he  said  to  Morphy.  "  Fuchs's  got  me.  You 
hold  up  Pirn.  Tell  Doyle  to  get  out  on  the  ledge." 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  Doyle  said  to  Parr. 

"  Stay  there  an'  burn  then,"  Parr  replied,  moving  away. 

"  Hold  on,"  he  pleaded.  He  clambered  out,  white  and  weak. 
"  Oh,  if  I  ever  get  out  o'  this,"  he  said,  "  it's  the  last  the  fire  de- 
partment'll  ever  see  of  me." 

Fortunately,  he  was  on  the  end  of  the  line,  and  Parr  held  him 
up.  The  men  worked  their  way  along  with  a  painful  cautiousness. 
"  I  feel  like  a  blamed  planked  shad,"  Pirn  said.  He  was  answered 
only  by  the  hoarse  breathing  of  Morphy. 

Fuchs  was  already  over  the  window-sill.  Now  Gallegher  fol- 
lowed him.  Morphy  caught  the  sill  and  clung  to  it.  "  I  can't,"  he 
panted.  "  I  can't  lift  my  leg.  It's  par-rar-alyzed." 

Gallegher  said,  cheerily:  "  Come  along,  then,  far  enough — so's  we 
can  get  Pirn." 

Morphy 's  teeth  were  chattering.  Pirn  came  grinning  to  the  sash. 
They  dragged  the  probationer  into  the  window,  and  he  collapsed  on 
the  floor.  "  I  can't  stand  up,"  he  confessed,  shamefacedly.  "  I  got 
wabbles  in  the  legs." 

They  lifted  Doyle  in,  and  stood  in  a  ring  around  Morphy  and 
him,  drawing  deep  breaths.  "  How  are  you,  Doyle? "  Galle- 
gher asked. 

"  Oh,  I'm  out  o'  this  game/'  Doyle  said.  "  There's  easier  ways  of 
earnin'  a  livin'  than  this." 

They  did  not  answer  him.  Pirn  and  Parr  put  an  arm  each 
about  Morphy,  and  raised  him  to  his  feet.  "  I  s'pose  we'll  have  to 
carry  you  down,"  Pim  said.  He  added,  at  thought  of  his  unpro- 
tected feet;  "  It'll  just  be  my  luck  if  this  place's  a  tack  factory." 

Morphy  staggered  away  from  their  support.  "  I'm  all  right,"  he 
said.  "  It  was  just  in  my  legs — an'  tha,t  scared  me — I  thought  I'd 
bring  you  all  down  if  I  went.  .  .  .  Lord!  How  Jordan  yelled." 

They  straggled  along  in  silence  to  the  stairs,  and  were  met  there 
by  a  squad  of  men  who  had  been  sent  to  the  roof  to  lower  ropes  to 
them,  and  had  looked  down  to  see  them,  through  the  drift  of  the 
smoke,  clinging  miraculously  to  the  flat  wall  at  the  sixth  story.  A 
triumphal  procession  escorted  them  to  the  street. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Tor  ranee  fire,  so  far  as  the  "  red-ink 
squad  "  was  concerned.  Of  the  five  probationers  who  had  answered 
22 


338  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

the  alarm,  only  Fuchs  and  Morphy  stood  with  Company  No.  0  when 
the  basement  squad  lined  up  with  Gallegher's  shoeless  following  at 
the  neighboring  bar  to  drink  the  health  of  the  crew.  "  Spaghetti  " 
was  in  the  hospital.  Doyle  had  taken  himself  off  to  his  home  with- 
out handing  in  any  formal  resignation.  "  Dan  Jordan  " — a  ring  of 
whispering  men  gathered  around  Lieutenant  Gallegher,  with  their 
glasses  in  their  hands,  and  heard  of  the  end  of  him.  The  saloon- 
keeper came  to  listen  to  them  across  the  bar.  Gallegher  saw  him. 
"  To  the  '  red-ink  squad  '!  "  he  called. 

They  put  their  glasses  to  white  teeth  that  flashed  like  negroes' 
in  the  blackness  of  their  smoke-begrimed  faces. 

"  And  to  the  fire  that  made  them  black!  "  Pirn  added — which,  as 
the  sequel  showed,  was  at  once  a  pun  and  a  prophecy. 


By  permission  Metropolitan  Museum 

THE    THINKER.       BY   AUGUSTE    RODIN 


THE  THINKER 
BY  BERTON  BRALEY 

Back  of  the  beating  hammer 
By  which  the  steel  is  wrought, 
Back  of  the  workshop's  clamor 
The  seeker  may  find  the  Thought 
Of  iron  and  steam  and  steel, 
That  rises  above  disaster 
And  tramples  it  under  heel! 

The  drudge  may  fret  and  tinker 
Or  labor  with  dusty  blows, 
But  back  of  him  stands  the  Thinker, 
The  clear-eyed  man  who  Knows; 
For  into  each  plow  or  saber, 
Each  piece  and  part  and  whole, 
Must  go  the  Brains  of  Labor, 
Which  gives  the  work  a  soul! 

Back  of  the  motors  humming, 
Back  of  the  belts  that  sing, 
Back  of  the  hammers  drumming, 
Back  of  the  cranes  that  swing, 
There  is  the  eye  which  scans  them 
Watching  through  stress  and  strain, 
There  is  the  Mind  which  plans  them — 
Back  of  the  brawn,  the  Brain! 

Might  of  the  roaring  boiler, 
Force  of  the  engine's  thrust, 
Strength  of  the  sweating  toiler, 
Greatly  in  these  we  trust. 
But  back  of  them  stands  the  Schemer, 
The  Thinker  who  drives  things  through; 
Back  of  the  job — the  Dreamer 
Who's  making  the  dream  come  true! 


From  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World,  by  Berton  Braley.    Copyright,  1915, 
George  H.  Doran  Company,  Publishers. 

339 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

ADAMS,  SAMUEL  HOPKINS  :    The  Clarion. 

ADAMS  and  FOSTER  :    Heroines  of  Modern  Progress. 

ALDRICH,  THOMAS  BAILEY  :    The  Stillwater  Tragedy. 

ALLEN,  JAMES  LANE  :   The  Reign  of  Law. 

ANONYMOUS  :   The  Long  Day. 

BACHELLER,  IRVING  :    Keeping1  Up  With  Lizzie. 

BACON,  MARY  APPLEWHITE:    Who  Was  Her  Keeper?    The  Problem  of  the 
Southern  Cotton-Mill  (Atlantic,  99:224). 

BAILEY,  L.  H. :    Outlook  to  Nature ;  The  Realm  of  the  Commonplace. 

BALDWIN,  CHARLES  S. :    Salad  (In  Essays  Out  of  Hours). 

BANGS,  JOHN  KENDRICK:     The  Booming  of  Acre  Hill;   The  Enchanted 
Typewriter. 

BARR,  AMELIA  E. :    Joan ;  Master  of  His  Fate. 

BARRIE,  JAMES  :    When  a  Man's  Single. 

BARTON,  BRUCE:     More  Power  to  You;  The  Price  of  a  Good  Job;  A 
Better  Job. 

BEACH,  REX  :    The  Silver  Horde ;  The  Iron  Trail. 

BELL,  J.  J. :    The  Whalers. 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD:    Your  United  States;  Clayhanger;  Self  and  Self-Man- 
agement. 

BENNETT,  ARNOLD,  and  KNOBLAUCH,  EDWARD  :    Milestones. 

BEYMER,  WILLIAM  GILMORE:   Apathy  and  Steel  (Harper's,  March,  1909 — ). 

BLACKMORE,  RICHARD:    Lorna  Doone. 

BLYTHE,  SAMUEL  G. :    The  Making  of  a  Newspaper  Man. 

BOND,  RUSSELL  :    On  the  Battle  fronts  of  Engineering. 

BRALEY,  BERTON  :    Songs  of  a  Workaday  World. 

BRONTE,  CHARLOTTE:    Shirley. 

BROWNING,  ROBERT  :    Fust  and  His  Friends. 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  :    The  Bitter  Cry  of  the  Children. 

BULLEN,  FRANK  THOMAS  :    The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot. 

BURNETT,  FRANCES  H. :    That  Lass  o'  Lowrie's. 

BURROUGHS,  JOHN  :    Essays  on  Bees. 

CHALMERS,  HUGH  :     The  Science  of   Selling  Goods    (In  Collier's,  April 
16,  1910). 

CHURCHILL,   WINSTON:     The   Dwelling   Place   of    Light;    Mrs.    Crewe's 
Career. 

COBB,  IRWIN  :    The  Thunders  of  Silence. 

COLLINS,  FRANCIS  A. :    The  Wireless  Man. 
340 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  341 

CONNOLLY,  JAMES  B. :    The  Deep  Sea's  Toll. 

CRAIK,  DINAH  M. :    John  Halifax. 

CRAWFORD,  MARION  :    Marietta. 

CUMMINS,  MARIA  SUSANNA:    The  Lamplighter. 

DAVIS,  RICHARD  HARDING:    Gallegher. 

DAVIS,  REBECCA  H. :    Life  in  the  Iron  Mills. 

DAY,  HOLM  AN  :    King  Spruce. 

DANA,  RICHARD  HENRY  :    Two  Years  Before  the  Mast. 

DELANO,  MARGARET:    The  Iron  Woman. 

DELANO,  LORIN  F. :    Imagination  in  Business. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES  :    Hard  Times ;  Barnaby  Rudge. 

DISRAELI,  BENJAMIN  :    Sybil. 

DODGE,  HENRY  IRVING:     Skinner's  Dress  Suit;  Skinner's  Big  Idea. 

DONNELL,  ANNIE  HAMILTON  :    One  Hundred  and  Oneth. 

DUPUY,  WILLIAM  A. :    Uncle  Sam's  Modern  Miracles ;  Uncle  Sam,  Wonder 

Worker. 
EATON,  WALTER  PRICHARD:     The  Idyl  of  Twin  Fires;  Green  Trails  and 

Upland  Pastures. 

EDGEWORTH,  MARIA:    Castle  Rackrent;  The  Absentee. 
ELIOT,  GEORGE:  Felix  Holt,  Radical;  Adam  Bede;  Stradivarius. 
FERBER,  EDNA  :    Fanny  Herself ;  Personality  Plus. 
FLETCHER,  A.  C.  B. :    From  Job  to  Job  Around  the  World. 
FREEMAN,  MARY  E.  W. :    The  Revolt  of  Mother ;  The  Portion  of  Labor. 
GALSWORTHY,  JOHN:    The  Inn  of  Tranquillity;  The  Freelands. 
GARLAND,  HAMLIN:    They  of  the  High  Trails;  Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie; 

A  Son  of  the  Middle  Border. 
GASKELL,  ELIZABETH  C. :    Mary  Barton. 
GIBSON,  WILFRID:    Livelihood;  Daily  Bread;  Fires. 

GILL,  ARTHUR:    Some  Novelists  and  the  Business  Man  (Atlanic,  vol.  cxii). 
GREY,  ZANE  :    The  Young  Forester ;  The  Desert  of  Wheat. 
GRIGGS,  EDWARD  H. :    Self-Culture  Through  the  Vocation. 
GUNN,  MRS.  ^ENEAS  :    We  of  the  Never-Never  Land. 
HALE,  EDWARD  EVERETT  :   Ups  and  Downs ;  Stories  of  Inventions. 
HALL,  ELIZA  CALVERT:    Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky;  Hand  Woven  Coverlets. 
HALLOCK,  MARY  FOOTE  :   The  Chosen  Valley. 
HANNAY,  JAMES  O. :    Gossamer. 
HARDY,  THOMAS  :    Far  From  the  Madding  Crowd. 
HARRIS,  GARRARD  :    Joe,  the  Book  Farmer. 
HARRISON,  HENRY  S. :    V.  V.'s  Eyes. 
HARTE,  FRANCIS  BRET:    Story  of  a  Mine. 
HAUPTMAN,  GERHARDT:    The  Weavers. 
HARRINGTON,  H.  F. :    Typical  Newspaper  Stories. 
HAY,  JOHN  :  The  Breadwinners. 


342  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

HEARN,  LAFACADIO:    Two  Years  in  the  French  West  Indies. 

HOWELLS,  WILLIAM  DEAN  :    The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham. 

HUARD,  FRANCES  :    My  Home  in  the  Field  of  Mercy. 

HUDSON,  WILLIAM  H. :    Far  Away  and  Long  Ago. 

HUNGERFORD,  EDWARD:    The  Modern  Railroad. 

HUSBAND,  JOSEPH  :    A  Year  in  a  Coal  Mine. 

JACKSON,  HELEN  H. :    Nelly's  Silver  Mine ;  Ramona. 

JEANS,  W.  T. :    Creators  of  the  Age  of  Steel. 

JEFFRIES,  RICHARD  :   The  Toilers  of  the  Field. 

JOKAI,  MAURUS:    Black  Diamonds. 

JORDAN,  ELIZABETH  :    Mary  Iverson's  Career. 

KINGSLEY,  CHARLES:    Yeast;  Alton  Lock. 

KIPLING,  RUDYARD:  A  Walking  Delegate;  Day's  Work;  Captains  Coura- 
geous ;  The  Liner  She's  a  Lady ;  The  Press. 

KNOBLAUCH,  EDWARD:    My  Lady's  Dress. 

LAGERLOF,  SELMA:    Lilecrona's  Home. 

LARCOM,  LUCY:    A  New  England  Girlhood. 

LASELLE,  MARY  A. :    The  Young  Woman  Worker. 

LAUGHLIN,  CLARA  E. :    The  Work-a-Day  Girl. 

LEE,  GERALD  STANLEY:    Crowds;  The  Voices  of  the  Machines. 

LINCOLN,  JOSEPH  :    Cape  Cod  Ballads. 

LONDON,  JACK:    The  Call  of  the  Wild;  The  Sea  Wolf. 

LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  W. :    Keramos. 

LUMMIS,  CHARLES  F. :    Some  Strange  Corners. 

LYNDE,  FRANCIS:    Scientific  Sprague. 

LYNN,  MARGARET:    A  Step-Daughter  of  the  Prairie. 

MABIE,  HAMILTON  W. :    Essays  on  Work  and  Culture. 

MAETERLINCK,  MAURICE  :   The  Life  of  the  Bee. 

MARSHALL,  ARCHIBALD  :    The  Old  Order  Changeth. 

McCmRE,  S.  S. :    Autobiography. 

McFARLAND,  J.  HORACE  :    My  Growing  Garden. 

MCGREGOR,  T.  B. :    The  Book  of  Thrift. 

MASEFIELD,  JOHN  :  The  Story  of  a  Round  House  and  Other  Poems ;  Jim 
Davis. 

MEACHAM,  ALLEN:    Belle  Jones. 

MEADE,  A.  H. :    When  I  Was  a  Little  Girl. 

MERWIN,  S.,  and  WEBSTER,  H.  K. :    Calumet  "  K." 

MERWIN,  SAMUEL:    The  Road  Builders. 

MONROE,  KIRK  :    Gerrick  Sterling ;  Prince  Dusty. 

MONROE,  A.  S. :    Making  a  Business  Woman. 

MORGAN,  WILLIAM  DE  :   John  Vance. 

MORLEY,  CHRISTOPHER:    The  Haunted  Book  Shop;  Parnassus  on  Wheels. 

MORRIS,  WILLIAM:    News  from  Nowhere;  The  Lesser  Arts  of  Life. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  343 

MORRIS,  CHARLES  :    Heroes  of  Progress  in  America. 

MUIR,  JOHN:    The  Story  of  My  Boyhood  and  Youth. 

MUNROE,  JOHN  :    Heroes  of  the  Telegraph. 

MURRAY,  DAVID  :  Old  Blazer's  Hero ;  A  Capful  of  Nails. 

NORRIS,  FRANK  :   The  Octopus ;  The  Pit. 

NORRIS,  KATHLEEN  :    Mother. 

NOYES,  ALFRED:    The  Biography  of  William  Morris. 

O'HiGGiNs,  HARVEY  JERROLD  :    The  Smoke  Eaters. 

ONIONS,  OLIVER:    Good  Boy  Seldom. 

OXLEY,  J.  M. :    The  Romance  of  Commerce. 

PACKARD,  FRANK  L. :    The  Night  Operator. 

PENNELL,  ELIZABETH  :    The  Delights  of  Delicate  Eating. 

PENNELL,  JOSEPH  :    Pictures  of  the  Wonder  of  Work. 

PHILLPOTTS,  EDEN  :  The  Banks  of  Colne ;  Green  Alleys ;  Brunei's  Tower ; 
Old  Delabole. 

POOLE,  ERNEST  :    The  Harbor. 

PORTER,  WILLIAM  S. :    The  Trimmed  Lamp. 

PORTER,  GENE  STRATTON  :    The  Harvester ;  The  Girl  of  the  Limberlost. 

PYLE,  JOSEPH  GILPIN  :   The  Life  of  James  J.  Hill. 

READE,  CHARLES  :   The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth ;  Put  Yourself  in  His  Place. 

REPPLIER,  AGNES:    Essays  in  Miniature. 

RICHARDS,  LAURA  E. :    Life  of  Florence  Nightingale. 

RICHARDSON,  ANNA  S. :    Adventures  in  Thrift. 

ROOSEVELT,  THEODORE:    The  Backwoodsman. 

RUPERT,  ELINORE:    Letters  of  a  Woman  Homesteader. 

RUSKIN,  JOHN:    Fors  Clavigera. 

SCHERER,  JAMES  A.  B. :    Cotton  as  a  World  Power. 

SCHREINER,  OLIVE  :    Woman  and  Labor. 

SCULLY,  WILLIAM  C. :  The  Odyssey  of  the  Sockeye  Salmon  (Atlantic, 
August,  1916). 

SERVICE,  ROBERT  W. :    Songs  of  a  Sourdough ;  Spell  of  the  Yukon. 

SHARP,  DALLAS  :    Hills  of  Hingham. 

SHAW,  ANNA  H. :    Story  of  a  Pioneer. 

SINCLAIR,  UPTON:    King  Coal. 

SLATER,  MARY  WHITE:    Jenkins  (Harper's,  April,  1918). 

SMITH,  HOPKINSON:  Caleb  West;  The  Wood  Fire  in  No.  3;  Tom  Grogan; 
Tides  of  Barnegat. 

SPEARMAN,  FRANK  :   The  Nerve  of  Foley  and  Others ;  Held  for  Orders. 

SPENCER,  ELLEN  LANE  :    The  Efficient  Secretary. 

STERN,  E.  G. :    My  Mother  and  I. 

STEVENSON,  ROBERT  L. :     Silverado  Squatters. 

STOCKTON,  FRANK  R. :  The  Casting  Away  of  Mrs.  Leeks  and  Mrs.  Ale- 
shine. 


344  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

STRUNSKY,  SIMEON:   The  Psychology  of  Shopping  (Harper's,  vol.  cxxxiv). 

SWIFT,  ELIZA  MORGAN  :    The  Village  Central. 

TARBELL,  IDA  M. :    The  Business  of  Being  a  Woman. 

TARKINGTON,  BOOTH  :    The  Turmoil. 

TULLY,  ELEANOR  GATES  :    The  Diary  of  a  Prairie  Girl. 

VERRILL,  A.  HYATT:    Uncle  Abner's  Legacy. 

WARD,  ELIZABETH  S.  P. :    A  Madonna  of  the  Tubs. 

WARMEN,  CY  :    The  Story  of  a  Railroad ;  The  Last  Spike. 

WARNER,  CHARLES  DUDLEY  :    Being  a  Boy. 

WELLS,  HERBERT  GEORGE  :    Kipps,  Tono-Bungay. 

WHITE,  STEWART  EDWARD  :    The  Riverman ;  The  Forest ;  The  Westerners ; 

Arizona  Nights;  Silent  Places;  Gold;  Blazed  Trail  Stories. 
WIDDEMER,  MARGARET  :   Factories,  with  Other  Lyrics. 
WIGGIN,  KATE  DOUGLAS  :    Half  a  Dozen  Housekeepers. 
WILCOX,  WALTER:    Camping  in  the  Canadian  Rockies. 
WILLIAMS,   ARCHIBALD:      The   Romance   of   Modern    Engineering;    The 

Romance  of  Mining. 

WILLIAMS,  JESSE  LYNCH:    The  Stolen  Story. 
WILLIAMSON,  MRS.  C.  N. :    The  Newspaper  Girl. 
WILTSIE,  HONORE  :    Still  Jim. 
WISTER,  OWEN  :    The  Virginian. 
WOODBRIDGE,  ELIZABETH  :    More  Jonathan  Papers. 
WOOLEY,  EDWARD  MOTT:     The  Blue  Store   (McClure,  vol.  xxxix)  ;  The 

Silent  Voice  (Scribner,  vol.  Ixi,  p.  673.). 
WRIGHT,  HAROLD  BELL  :    The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth. 


WHO'S  WHO 

REX  ELLINGWOOD  BEACH,  novelist,  was  born  at  Atwood,  Michigan,  in 
1877.  Some  of  his  novels  are  The  Spoilers,  The  Barrier,  The  Silver  Horde, 
The  Iron  Trail.  His  address  is  Lake  Hopatcong,  New  Jersey. 

ENOCH  ARNOLD  BENNETT,  author  and  journalist,  was  born  in  North 
Staffordshire  in  1867.  Since  1900  he  has  devoted  himself  exclusively  to 
writing  as  a  profession.  Some  of  his  well-known  works  are  Old  Wives' 
Tales,  Clayhanger,  Hilda  Lessways,  War  Scenes  on  the  Western  Front, 
How  to  Live  on  Twenty-four  Hours  a  Day,  Your  United  States.  He  col- 
laborated with  Edward  Knoblauch  in  writing  the  play  Milestones.  His 
address  is  Comarques,  Thorpe-le-Soken,  England. 

BERTON  BRALEY,  writer  of  verse,  was  born  at  Madison,  Wisconsin,  in 
1882.  He  has  contributed  about  5000  poems  and  300  short  stories  and  many 
articles  to  newspapers  and  magazines.  Perhaps  his  best  known  volume  of 
verse  is  Songs  of  a  Workaday  World.  His  address  is  121  East  I7th  St., 
New  York. 

FRANK  THOMAS  BULLEN  was  an  English  author  and  lecturer.  He  was 
born  in  Paddington  in  1857  and  died  in  1915.  He  went  to  sea  in  1869, 
serving  in  all  parts  of  the  world.  From  1863  to  1899  he  was  clerk  in  the 
Meteorological  Office ;  then  he  began  to  write  sea  stories,  the  best  of  them 
being  The  Cruise  of  the  Cachalot.  Other  works  of  his  are  The  Ccell  of  the 
Deep,  Lay  of  a  Sea  Waif,  and  Recollections. 

RICHARD  EUGENE  BURTON,  college  professor,  was  born  at  Hartford, 
Connecticut,  in  1861.  He  has  been  head  of  the  English  department  in  the 
University  of  Minnesota  since  1906.  He  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of 
verse  and  literary  criticism.  His  home  is  at  116  Oak  Grove  St.,  Minne- 
apolis, Minnesota. 

ARCHIE  AUSTIN  COATES,  poet  and  short-story  writer,  was  born  at 
Dayton,  Ohio,  in  1891.  He  is  a  graduate  of  Columbia  University.  He  has 
been  associate  editor  of  the  Literary  Digest,  Life,  and  the  New  York 
Tribune  Graphic.  He  is  a  contributor  to  Harper's,  the  Saturday  Evening 
Post,  McClure's,  Everybody's,  and  Poetry.  He  is  the  auhor  of  Odes  and 
Episodes,  and  City  Tides.  His  address  in  winter  is  Columbia  University 
Club,  New  York;  in  summer,  " Fartherside,"  Mohegan  Lake,  New  York. 

MARGARETTA  WADE  DELANO  was  born  at  Allegheny,  Pa.,  February, 
1857.  Some  of  her  works  are  Old  Chester  Tales,  Dr.  Lavender's  People, 
The  Awakening  of  Helena  Richie,  The  Iron  Woman.  Her  address  is 
35  Newbury  St.,  Boston. 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE  was  born  at  Germantown,  Pennsylvania,  in  1852.  He 
is  a  Presbyterian  minister  and  professor  of  English  literature  at  Prince- 

345 


346  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

ton.  In  1913,  President  Wilson  appointed  him  minister  to  the  Netherlands 
and  Luxemburg.  Some  of  his  works  are  Poetry  of  Tennyson,  Little  Rivers, 
The  Other  Wise  Man,  Fisherman's  Luck,  and  Poems.  His  home  is  at 
Avalon,  Princeton,  New  Jersey. 

EDNA  FERBER  was  born  at  Kalamazoo,  Michigan,  August  15,  1887.  She 
was  a  reporter  on  the  Appleton  Daily  Crescent  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  and 
was  later  employed  on  the  Milwaukee  Journal  and  Chicago  Tribune.  She 
is  now  engaged  in  short-story  writing  for  magazines.  Some  of  her  works 
are  Dawn  O'Hara,  Buttered  Side  Down,  Roast  Beef  Medium,  Personality 
Plus,  Emma  McChesney  and  Co.,  Fanny  Herself.  Her  address  is  Hotel 
Majestic,  New  York. 

HAMLIN  GARLAND,  novelist  and  dramatist,  was  born  at  West  Salem, 
Wisconsin,  in  1860.  He  worked  on  the  farm,  taught  school,  took  up  a 
claim  in  McPherson  County,  Dakota,  but  soon  after  he  adopted  writing  as 
a  profession.  He  is  the  author  of  Main-Traveled  Roads,  Rose  of  Dutchers 
Coolly,  Prairie  Songs,  Her  Mountain  Lover,  Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie,  A 
Son  of  the  Middle  Border.  His  address  is  "  The  Gift  Dwellers,"  Chicago. 

HERSCHEL  S.  HALL  is  a  writer  of  short  fiction,  particularly  of  steel-mill 
stories.  His  address  is  Ashland,  Ohio. 

HENRY  SYDNOR  HARRISON  was  born  at  Sewanee,  Tennessee,  in  1880. 
Columbia  University  conferred  a  Master's  degree  on  him  in  1913.  He  is  a 
democrat  and  an  Episcopalian.  He  is  the  author  of  Queed  and  V .  V's 
Eyes.  His  home  is  at  Charleston,  West  Virginia. 

WALTER  SANDERS  HIATT,  "  newspaper  man,"  was  born  in  Jasper,  Marion 
County,  Tennessee,  in  1878.  He  was  chief  yeoman,  U.  S.  N.,  in  the  Spanish- 
American  War.  He  began  newspaper  work  with  the  Morning  Herald, 
Lexington,  Kentucky,  in  1899.  He  was  associated  with  the  editorial  depart- 
ment of  the  New  York  Times  from  1901  to  1904.  He  has  been  an  extensive 
contributor  to  magazines  on  transportation  subjects.  In  the  recent  war  he 
represented  the  Associated  Press  with  the  Italian  Army.  His  address  is 
33  West  42d  St.,  New  York,  care  of  Authors'  League  of  America. 

CARL  HOLLIDAY,  college  professor,  was  born  at  Hanging  Rock,  Ohio, 
in  1879.  Since  1917  he  has  been  head  of  the  English  department  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Toledo,  Ohio.  He  is  a  writer  on  literary,  educational,  and  social 
themes,  and  the  author  of  The  Cotton  Picker  and  Other  Poems,  The 
Literature  of  Colonial  Virginia,  and  The  Wit  and  Humor  of  Colonial  Days. 

PETER  BERNARD  KYNE,  writer  by  profession,  was  born  on  a  small  farm 
in  California  in  1880,  where  he  lived  until  he  was  seventeen.  Then  he 
went  to  the  Spanish-American  War.  He  tried  the  lumber  business  and 
newspaper  work,  and  then  finally  settled  into  writing.  His  best-known 
works  are  Cappy  Ricks,  The  Long  Chance,  Three  Godfathers,  and  Valley 
of  the  Giants.  He  has  published  many  short  stories  and  articles  in  Sunset 
Magazine  and  Collier's.  He  lives  in  California. 

EDWIN  LEFEVRE,  author,  was  born  in  Colon,  Colombia,  in  1871.    He 


WHO'S  WHO  347 

studied  mining  engineering,  but  has  been  a  journalist  since  1890.  He  is  the 
author  of  Wall  Street  Stories,  The  Golden  Flood*  Sampson  Rock  of  Wall 
Street.  His  home  is  at  Dorset,  Vermont;  his  address  is  7  West  43d  St., 
New  York. 

JOSEPH  CROSBY  LINCOLN,  poet  and  short-story  writer,  was  born  at 
Brewster,  Mass.,  in  1870.  He  is  the  author  of  Cape  Cod  Ballads,  Cap'n 
Eri,  Keziah  Coffin.  He  lives  in  Hackensack,  New  Jersey. 

CHARLES  FLETCHER  LUMMIS,  author  and  explorer,  was  born  at  Lynn, 
Massachusetts,  in  1859.  He  was  graduated  from  Harvard.  In  1884  he 
walked  from  Cincinnati  to  Los  Angeles,  California,  by  a  roundabout  route, 
solely  for  pleasure,  3507  miles  in  143  days.  He  lived  five  years  in  the 
Indian  pueblo  of  Isleta,  New  Mexico,  learning  Indian  languages  and  cus- 
toms. He  has  explored  the  continent  from  Canada  to  Chile;  he  was 
knighed  by  the  King  of  Spain  in  1915  for  researches  in  Spanish-American 
history.  He  wrote  A  Tramp  Across  the  Continent,  and  Some  Strange  Cor- 
ners of  Our  Country.  His  address  is  200  East  Ave.  43,  Los  Angeles, 
California. 

MARGARET  LYNN  is  a  member  of  the  English  department  of  the  State 
University  of  Kansas  at  Lawrence.  She  is  best  known  for  her  sympathetic 
delineation  of  prairie  life.  Much  of  her  work  has  appeared  in  the  Atlantic 
Monthly.  She  is  the  author  of  A  Step-Daughter  of  the  Prairie  and  A 
Collection  of  Eighteenth  Century  Verse. 

MAURICE  MAETERLINCK,  born  in  1862,  is  a  native  of  Belgium.  Some  of  his 
works  are  Pelleas  and  Melisande,  Interieur,  The  Death  of  Tintagiles,  The 
Blue  Bird,  Sceur  Beatrice,  Ariane  et  Barbebleue.  He  says  that  his  recrea- 
tions are  bee-keeping,  canoeing,  skating,  bicycling,  motoring.  His  address 
is  Villa  des  Abeilles,  Ave.  des  Baumettes,  Nice,  (A.  M.)  France. 

PETER  McARTHUR,  born  in  1866,  lives  on  a  farm  in  the  Province  of 
Ontario,  not  far  from  London,  Ontario.  He  has  published  many  short 
stories  and  articles  in  The  Canadian  Magazine  and  a  few  in  The  Forum. 
His  best-known  works  are  In  Pastures  Green,  and  The  Red  Cow  and  Her 
Friends.  An  article  in  The  Canadian  Magazine,  December  1915,  says :  Mr. 
McArthur  is  precisely  what  he  pretends  to  be — a  farmer.  But  he  is  not 
one  of  these  college-bred,  scientific  agriculturists,  for  he  introduces  into 
farm  life  a  seasoning  of  philosophy  and  a  fine  vein  of  humor.  He  wields 
a  prolific  pen  in  a  number  of  influential  journals  and  has  made  himself 
famous  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  Canada  by  telling  people  in  a 
humorous-serious  strain  of  the  simple  charms  of  rural  life.  This  is 
the  theme  of  his  volume  The  Red  Cow,  which,  with  its  appropriate  and 
attractive  decorative  illustrations,  will  appeal  to  all  lovers  of  farm  and 
country  life. 

CONSTANTIN  MsuNiER  was  born  near  Brussels,  Belgium,  in  1831,  and 
died  at  Brussels  in  1905.  He  was  a  sculptor  and  painter.  He  preferred  to 
model  subjects  from  the  working  classes — miners,  founders,  and  the  like — 


348  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

and  produced  a  series  of  powerful  statues,  the  Puddleur,  the  Marteleur, 
and  Le  Travail,  showing  a  central  figure,  Le  Semeur,  surrounded  by  four 
others,  La  Mine,  La  Moisson,  Le  Post,  and  L'Industrie. 

ANGELA  MORGAN,  poet  and  humanist,  was  born  of  New  England  parents, 
who  removed  to  the  Middle  West  when  she  was  a  child.  Early  in  her 
life  she  entered  upon  a  career  of  journalism  and  sought  the  fundamental 
facts  of  human  experience,  visiting  police  courts,  jails,  and  the  slums  of 
large  cities.  She  has  produced  four  volumes  of  verse  and  much  fiction. 
Miss  Morgan  has  traveled  extensively  and  given  readings  from  her  own 
poems  and  lectures  on  the  poets  of  the  day,  and  has  been  successful  at 
Chautauqua  as  a  reader  and  interpreter  of  poetry.  Her  books  are  The 
Hour  Has  Struck,  Utterance  and  Other  Poems,  The  Imprisoned  Splendor, 
and  Forward  March!  Her  address  is  587  Riverside  Drive,  New  York. 

CHRISTOPHER  DARLINGTON  MORLEY  is  an  editorial  writer  on  the  Phila- 
delphia Public  Ledger.  He  is  the  author  of  Parnassus  on  Wheels,  Songs 
for  a  Little  House,  Shandygaff,  The  Haunted  Bookshop.  His  address  is 
Wyncote,  Pennsylvania. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  NORRIS  was  born  in  Chicago  in  1870  and  died  in 
San  Francisco  in  1902.  He  was  educated  at  the  University  of  California 
and  Harvard  University.  He  studied  art  in  Paris,  was  war  correspondent 
in  South  Africa,  and  also  in  the  Spanish-American  War  for  McClure's 
Magazine.  He  wrote  McTague,  The  Octopus,  The  Pit,  A  Deal  in  Wheat. 
In  The  Pit,  says  Frank  Taber  Cooper,  Norris  portrays  a  gigantic  attempt 
to  corner  the  entire  world's  supply  of  wheat,  to  force  it  up,  up,  up,  and 
hold  the  price  through  April,  May,  and  June — and  then  finally  the  new  crop 
comes  pouring  in  and  the  daring  speculator  is  overwhelmed  by  the  rising 
tide,  "  a  human  insect,  impotently  striving  to  hold  back  with  his  puny  hand 
the  output  of  the  whole  world's  granaries." 

ELIZA  CALVERT  HALL  OBENCHAIN  was  born  at  Bowling  Green,  Ken- 
tucky, in  1856.  She  has  been  identified  with  the  cause  of  woman  suffrage 
since  1889.  She  is  the  author  of  Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky,  and  A  Book  of 
Handwoven  Coverlets.  Her  address  is  Bowling  Green,  Kentucky. 

HARVEY  J.  O'HIGGINS  was  born  in  London,  Ontario,  in  1876.  He  is 
the  author  of  The  Smoke  Eaters,  Old  Clinkers,  The  Beast  and  the  Jungle 
(with  Judge  Ben  B.  Lindsey),  and  Under  the  Prophet  in  Utah  (with 
Frank  J.  Cannon).  His  address  is  Martinsville,  New  Jersey. 

ELIZABETH  WEST  PARKER  was  born  at  Woburn,  Massachusetts.  She 
is  a  student  of  literature,  and  writes,  she  says,  occasionally.  She  writes: 
"  Perhaps  you  will  be  interested  to  know  that  the  poem  Nora  was  written  in 
memory  of  my  dear  sister  who  passed  on  several  years  ago.  She  was  a 
radiant  spirit,  one  of  whom  we  speak  smiling  through  our  tears.  She 
accepted  drudgery,  helped  to  accomplish  its  end  in  us  and  moved  on  to 
higher  things."  Her  address  is  694  Main  St.,  Woburn,  Massachusetts. 


WHO'S  WHO  349 

JOSEPH  PEN  NELL,  artist,  illustrator,  author,  was  born  in  Philadelphia 
in  1860.  He  has  been  the  recipient  of  medals  and  honors  in  America  and 
Europe.  Among  his  most  notable  works  of  recent  years  are  Pictures  of 
the  Wonder  of  Work  and  Pictures  'of  War  Work  in  America.  The  intro- 
ductions of  these  two  books  should  be  read  by  everyone,  for  few  people 
have  interpreted  the  spirit  of  the  present  age  of  skyscrapers  and  machinery 
so  accurately  and  so  profoundly  as  Mr.  Pennell.  He  says :  "  From  the 
very  beginning  I  have  cared  for  the  Wonder  of  Work;  from  the  time  I 
built  cities  of  blocks  and  sailed  models  of  ships  of  them  across  the  floor 
in  my  father's  office,  till  I  went  to  the  Panama  Canal,  I  have  caredi  for  the 
Wonder  of  Work."  Mr.  Pennell  makes  one  quit  regretting  the  past  and 
deploring  the  present,  for  the  present,  under  his  influence,  assumes  a  new 
significance.  His  address  is  the  Century  Club,  New  York. 

ELIZABETH  ROBINS  PENNELL  (MRS.  JOSEPH  PENNELL)  was  born  at 
Philadelphia  in  1855.  She  has  spent  a  good  many  years  in  Europe.  She  is 
the  author  of  Our  House,  London  Out  of  Our  Windows,  Our  Philadelphia. 
Address :  Care  of  Joseph  Pennell,  Century  Club,  New  York. 

EDEN  PHILLPOTTS,  novelist,  was  born  at  Mount  Aboo,  India,  in  1862. 
His  father  was  captain  of  the  Fifteenth  Native  Infantry.  Phillpotts  studied 
for  the  stage,  but  abandoned  the  art  on  finding  that  his  ability  did  not 
justify  perseverance.  He  wrote  The  Human  Boy,  The  Human  Boy  and  the 
War,  and  Portreeve.  Recently  he  has  produced  four  novels  in  which  he 
has  utilized  great  industries  as  backgrounds  :  Brunei's  Tower,  Old  Delabole, 
Green  Alleys,  and  The  Banks  of  the  Colne.  His  address  is  Eltham, 
Torquay,  England. 

WILLIAM  SIDNEY  PORTER  (O.  HENRY)  was  born  at  Greensborough, 
North  Carolina,  in  1867.  He  spent  three  years  on  a  Texas  ranch,  was  a 
reporter  in  Houston,  Texas,  and  later  edited  his  own  paper  at  Austin, 
Texas.  Then  he  went  to  Central  America,  and  said  he  "knocked  around 
with  the  refugees  and  consuls."  In  1902,  he  went  to  New  York,  and  the 
remainder  of  his  life  was  given  to  the  profession  of  short-story  writing. 
Texas  gives  the  setting  of  the  short  stories  in  The  Heart  of  the  West; 
Central  America  is  the  background  of  Cabbages  and  Kings;  and  New  York 
furnished  the  background  for  The  Four  Million,  The  Voices  of  the  City, 
and  The  Trimmed  Lamp.  His  death  occurred  in  1910. 

LISETTE  WOODWORTH  REESE,  author,  was  born  in  Baltimore  County, 
Maryland,  in  1856.  She  is  a  teacher  of  English  in  the  Western  High 
School,  Baltimore.  She  is  the  author  of  several  volumes  of  verse:  A 
Branch  of  May,  A  Handful  of  Lavender,  A  Quiet  Road,  Wayside  Lute. 
Her  address  is  2926  Harford  Ave.,  Baltimore,  Maryland. 

AUGUSTE  RODIN,  sculptor,  was  born  in  Paris  in  1840.  He  was  educated 
in  several  schools  of  drawing,  among  them  Borye's.  He  served  in  the 
Franco-Prussian  War.  Among  his  important  works  are  The  Broken  Nose, 
The  Thinker,  Adam,  Eve,  Orpheus  and  Eurydice,  La  France.  Many  of 


350  THE  WORKER  AND  HIS  WORK 

these  are  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  New  York.  His  death  occurred 
November  27,  1917. 

JAMES  AUGUSTIN  BROWN  SCHERER,  college  president,  was  born  at  Salis- 
bury, North  Carolina,  in  1870.  He  has  spent  several  years  in  Japan.  He  is 
now  president  of  Throop  College  of  Technology.  He  is  the  author  of 
several  works  on  Japan  and  economic  questions.  In  1916,  he  published 
Cotton  as  a  World  Power,  a  study  in  the  economic  interpretation  of  history. 
His  address  is  Pasadena,  California. 

BERTRAND  WILLIAM  SINCLAIR  was  born  in  1878.  He  is  Scotch  by  birth 
and  descent,  being  a  native  of  Edinburgh.  His  parents  came  to  this 
country  when  he  was  eight  and  settled  in  the  Canadian  Northwest.  As  a 
boy  he  was  associated  with  cow-punchers,  miners,  and  trappers.  He 
received  almost  no  formal  schooling.  His  best-known  works  are  Big 
Timber  and  North  of  Fifty-Three. 

IDA  MINERVA  TARBELL  was  born  in  Erie  County,  Pennsylvania,  in  1857. 
She  was  a  student  in  Paris  at  the  Sorbonne  and  College  de  France.  From 
1894  to  1906,  she  was  an  associate  editor  of  McClure's  and  The  American 
Magazine.  Some  of  her  writings  are  Short  Story  of  Napoleon,  Life  'of 
Madame  Roland,  Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln,  The  History  of  the  Standard 
Oil  Company,  The  Business  of  Being  a  Woman.  Her  home  is  at  132  East 
I9th  St.,  and  her  office  at  381  Fourth  Ave.,  New  York. 

HERBERT  GEORGE  WELLS  was  born  at  Bromley,  September  21,  1866.  He 
is  an  English  writer  of  romances  dealing  chiefly  with  imaginary  future 
scientific  results.  Among  the  best  known  of  his  works  are  The  War  of  the 
Worlds,  Kipps,  In  the  Days  of  the  Comet,  New  Worlds  for  Old,  Tono- 
Bungay,  and  Mr.  Britling  Sees  It  Through.  His  address  is  Easton  Glebe, 
Dunmow,  Essex.  His  London  address  is  52  St.  James  Court,  S.  W. 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE,  born  at  Grand  Rapids,  Michigan,  in  1873, 
is  a  graduate  of  the  University  of  Michigan  and  the  Columbia  Law  School. 
He  is  a  writer  of  stories  and  novels  of  forestry,  lumbering,  and  western 
life.  Some  of  his  works  are  The  Blazed  Trail  Stories,  The  Westerners, 
The  Silent  Places,  The  Riverman.  His  address  is  Santa  Barbara,  California. 

ELIZABETH  WOODBRIDGE  (MRS.  CHARLES  GOULD  MORRIS),  author,  was 
born  at  Brooklyn  in  1870.  She  is  a  graduate  of  Vassar  and  the  author  of 
several  works  of  literary  criticism.  She  has  contributed  essays  to  the 
Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Outlook,  and  other  maagzines.  She  wrote  The  Drama 
— Its  Law  and  Its  Technique,  The  Jonathan  Papers,  and  More  Jonathan 
Papers.  Her  home  is  at  230  Prospect  St.,  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

HAROLD  BELL  WRIGHT  was  born  in  Oneida  County,  New  York,  in  1872. 
He  has  followed  many  professions,  having  been  painter  and  decorator, 
landscape  painter,  minister  and  author.  He  wrote  That  Printer  of  Udell's, 
The  Shepherd  of  the  Hills,  The  Winning  of  Barbara  Worth.  His  address 
is  Holtville,  California. 


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